Some years ago I taught some sessions in a class on Canadian cross-aesthetics. Three of my colleagues at Aalborg U and I went from philosophy, especially Charles Taylor, through the singer Leonard Cohen, the novelist Margaret Laurence, to other types of artistic manifestations. The class was a joy, especially as I had the privilege to close with Glenn Gould playing Bach. Now I can’t remember what I said, between showing enthusiasm for Gould’s own enthusiasm for Bach’s mathematical compositions and my own fascination with the cross between numbers and noumena, but I do remember that one of the things I emphasized was the fact that what made Gould’s performances so über brilliant and without equal is his ability to approach the musical subject without prejudice. In terms of method, he never approached a score without first learning it by heart, then thinking about it long and hard, and then playing it not on the piano, but in his head, as his fingers would tap on any board – without the keys. Such reverence inspires me.
The other thing I remember is one remark made by one of the students. As we watched some video clips with Gould’s only re-recording of the Goldberg Variations, something he rarely did – re-record, that is – the student let me know that what he found the most fascinating thing of all was watching me watch Gould’s hands as he folds them after the last variation (nr. 30). I wanted to shout: but how can one not notice what he does, and not feel moved down to the innermost core of one’s being?
Interesting business, watching others watch such moments of standing in close proximity to genius! I decided then, that that one student went home with a lesson learned. What this lesson was all about was precisely the rare kind that teaches us to be non-prejudiced. When one opens one’s mind to catching glimpses of the intricacies of the workings of another’s mind, one learns to ride an energy wave that has both gravity and grace in it. The function of experiencing passion in itself implies a tearing asunder. Performers that are bold enough recognize it in their audience, if the passion is felt in them. Some even choose to let you know that they’ve spotted it. It’s always a rewarding exchange when it happens, as what is mutually recognized is the transcendence of the thing-in-itself which is mediated not only by the performer but also by the listener. Such remediations enhance the intensity of passion and learning. I remember a couple of times what such closeness, brought about by the passion to transmit a thought, felt like, when I sat right behind Daniel Barenboim in a concert. After he finished, he gave me a straight and deep gaze, and with his head slightly bowed, he was almost making an imperceptible gesture of a salute with his hand.
The closest I came to experiencing other manifestations of the tearing asunder of passion, thought, and mediation, was not in a performer of music but in a lecturer. The late professor Michael Riffaterre from Columbia U, after having delivered a lecture in 1999 in Aalborg looked for me in the lecture hall in the break before the questioning session. He came up to me and without any introduction asked me if I wanted to go to New York. I said yes before he explained. The only thing he said following such bluntness was that it had been years since he experienced a burning gaze also at his back from someone sitting in the last row in a room where 300 other people were also sitting.
I had a good time in New York, and Riffaterre invited me back after my initial stay, so energy (and synergy) is not only something that happens in one’s own head.
Now I try to teach my own students to master not only a certain way of looking and listening, but also re-master their own performances in terms of showing reverence for that which deserves superior attention.
Enjoy Glenn Gould, the master of enabling us to ignore the times when we fall – out of grace, or into oblivion – and appreciate the times when we burn for others, and let others burn for us.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
ZWECK
The 32 diamonds in my ears sparkle against my mother’s greeting: Bonjour tristesse! Diamonds have zweck, she says, and then she urges me to drop speaking in boundary sentences. They can be false as well as true. She tells me why her logic is the Janus faced science of mathematics. I respond to her greeting with this one: von hier bis unendlich. She knows that this is the beginning of my plunging into describing my dream that deals with the cardinality of continuous relations. “You must be dressed in white for this symbolic language if you want me to interpret,” she says. She always goes with quantifiers, while I go with functions. I oblige. My silk is as dynamic as her logic. White tefillin bind my arms, and my hands, while my mouth spouts distances between two points that cannot be formulated in Euclidean geometry. After the ritual proof ceremony, I translate her meta-language into a natural language that describes my event. The story flows as a quick Heraclitean river. I lose my breath and my eyes petrify. "He came to me in my dream with his face disfigured. I laid my hands on it and he cried with joy. – “And?” she asked? “Nothing.” – “And” has already occurred as a homophonic connection,” I say. I pour cold water unto my head. My white hair matches my diamonds. Disjunctively, mother goes back to where she came from. He, whose face I still hold into my hands, summons the mountain for me. They both kneel. One on his knees, the other on its peaks.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
TEL QUEL
Vincent’s reality show, the ‘turning of reality’ project, the VVV take on things, finishes today with a talk about solipsism. Having started with the epistemology of tautology – à la Rumsfeld: there are unknown unknowns – to enticing to love ad infinitum – but not any infinity – in this last installment Vincent offers advice on how to avoid the trap of becoming your own subject: via communicating.
He both begins his talk and ends it with the same phrase. So this is important. This phrase reads: “logically speaking, it is impossible to feel depressed or alone if you choose to communicate.” For this implicit emotional message: “be vulnerable,” we send kisses Vincent’s way. In terms of reason, he got it wrong – if we assume that he addresses the solipsist. Firstly, logically speaking, a true solipsist will never experience the need to communicate anything whatsoever, least of all his thoughts – so giving him advice is an exercise in futility. The solipsist’s impossibility to communicate has at least two reasons: 1) he doesn’t know the meaning of being dependent on others, 2) nor is he possessive. A true solipsist’s discourse is never marked by the signs of constant claiming and clamoring. You will never hear a solipsist say: “it’s mine,” whether relating to objects or people. Nor will he demand: “give me some attention, now.” Obviously this has implications for the ethics of responsibility, which I won’t waste any time going into. Secondly, logically speaking you cannot pair solipsism with a conditional – if you choose to communicate, ra-ra-ra-ra-ra. A true solipsist is either depressed or he is not. He is always the embodiment of the condition of is, and never of if, as if, or maybe – we can fix it. Thirdly, logically speaking the solipsist doesn’t make any sense. As he also embodies a contradiction in terms: he exists in spite of annihilating his existence through thinking of the inconvenience of having been born, and acting thereupon.
Psychologically speaking, Vincent has a point – even though existential problems have rarely been solved through psychological intervention. Cognitive psychology, as against classical psychology – or the change of attitude vs. the talking cure philosophy – claims to have come up with some efficient remedies against the wounds in the soul. Its reductive methods, however, help only those that are not accustomed to thinking too much. Where I’m concerned I stick with Freud, Lacan, and Cioran. The latter said: “You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.” This being said, off I go. I’m not interested in becoming too social.
But courteously speaking, before I exit I must be grateful for having had the opportunity to think a little on the various topics discussed, and engage with a few of them on a level that exceeds the dimension of logic. Vincent, you have my gracious thanks for that – as you also have my continuous thinking.
He both begins his talk and ends it with the same phrase. So this is important. This phrase reads: “logically speaking, it is impossible to feel depressed or alone if you choose to communicate.” For this implicit emotional message: “be vulnerable,” we send kisses Vincent’s way. In terms of reason, he got it wrong – if we assume that he addresses the solipsist. Firstly, logically speaking, a true solipsist will never experience the need to communicate anything whatsoever, least of all his thoughts – so giving him advice is an exercise in futility. The solipsist’s impossibility to communicate has at least two reasons: 1) he doesn’t know the meaning of being dependent on others, 2) nor is he possessive. A true solipsist’s discourse is never marked by the signs of constant claiming and clamoring. You will never hear a solipsist say: “it’s mine,” whether relating to objects or people. Nor will he demand: “give me some attention, now.” Obviously this has implications for the ethics of responsibility, which I won’t waste any time going into. Secondly, logically speaking you cannot pair solipsism with a conditional – if you choose to communicate, ra-ra-ra-ra-ra. A true solipsist is either depressed or he is not. He is always the embodiment of the condition of is, and never of if, as if, or maybe – we can fix it. Thirdly, logically speaking the solipsist doesn’t make any sense. As he also embodies a contradiction in terms: he exists in spite of annihilating his existence through thinking of the inconvenience of having been born, and acting thereupon.
Psychologically speaking, Vincent has a point – even though existential problems have rarely been solved through psychological intervention. Cognitive psychology, as against classical psychology – or the change of attitude vs. the talking cure philosophy – claims to have come up with some efficient remedies against the wounds in the soul. Its reductive methods, however, help only those that are not accustomed to thinking too much. Where I’m concerned I stick with Freud, Lacan, and Cioran. The latter said: “You cannot protect your solitude if you cannot make yourself odious.” This being said, off I go. I’m not interested in becoming too social.
But courteously speaking, before I exit I must be grateful for having had the opportunity to think a little on the various topics discussed, and engage with a few of them on a level that exceeds the dimension of logic. Vincent, you have my gracious thanks for that – as you also have my continuous thinking.
Monday, April 20, 2009
BIRTHDAY
Today my husband is 51. I don’t like anniversaries, but I’m told that I’m good at creating good experiences where others’ are concerned. Here’s an example. When he turned 40 I had a special present for him, and as unique as it comes (when I turned 40, my wish was to be left alone, which was granted – that is also as unique as it comes). Prior to Bent’s 40th we were at a concert with the Aalborg Symphony orchestra. We sat in our regular seats in the front row (I like this kind of close proximity between myself and the stage where music and its performers are concerned). So I had a good view and vibs of the players. It was an evening at which the second concert master, a Hungarian violin player, gave a solo recital. I enjoyed it. What I also enjoyed was the jacket he was wearing. A cotton/linen piece of an exquisitely woven jacquard fabric. The predominant colors were baby blue, beige, and cream. A smash. I told my husband, “my god look at his jacket. Absolutely stunning, but it doesn’t go with his hair. In fact you would look much better in it, if it was yours.” To this he replied: “well, that maybe so, but the jacket is his, not mine, and there’s nothing one can do about it.” Now, while he went with, “and that’s that,” I went with, “really?”
As his birthday was approaching, I was convinced that I had to find a similar jacket for him. I couldn’t. When it hit me: why not persuade the Hungarian to sell it to me. While I had never talked to him in my life until that point, I thought that if I sent him a letter and introduced myself by making reference to his visual memory – I thought that he would remember me, sitting almost in front of him every other week – he wouldn’t think that my request was crazy, or that I was crazy. What I decided was to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse, money-wise. As I know things about fabrics and cuts, I made an estimate of how much his jacket must have cost, and offered him twice the price for it. I also told him what I needed it for. He wrote back, and said that I could have it, and that we should meet. We did. He took the jacket out of a bag, he showed it to me, and told me that it was way too much money I offered him for an old thing. He asked me whether I was sure about it. In fact he told me that as he never had any such requests in his life from a woman who wanted to surprise another person in such a way, he even considered giving me the jacket for free – just because he thought that what I did was special. But a deal is a deal (and I’m very good at understanding deals). He got his money and I got the jacket.
And my husband got his present to his absolute astonishment. He kept saying, but… but this is the Hungarian’s jacket. But it’s his jacket, for God’s sake! How did you manage? Those questions constituted my reward. I never do anything for free. He gave me his astonished face. In addition I got it confirmed that I was right. About the jacket suiting him more. So twice-over, my insight was rewarded by a mighty sight.
The things I see for today’s moment of astonishment? That shall remain a secret for now.
Happy birthday!
As his birthday was approaching, I was convinced that I had to find a similar jacket for him. I couldn’t. When it hit me: why not persuade the Hungarian to sell it to me. While I had never talked to him in my life until that point, I thought that if I sent him a letter and introduced myself by making reference to his visual memory – I thought that he would remember me, sitting almost in front of him every other week – he wouldn’t think that my request was crazy, or that I was crazy. What I decided was to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse, money-wise. As I know things about fabrics and cuts, I made an estimate of how much his jacket must have cost, and offered him twice the price for it. I also told him what I needed it for. He wrote back, and said that I could have it, and that we should meet. We did. He took the jacket out of a bag, he showed it to me, and told me that it was way too much money I offered him for an old thing. He asked me whether I was sure about it. In fact he told me that as he never had any such requests in his life from a woman who wanted to surprise another person in such a way, he even considered giving me the jacket for free – just because he thought that what I did was special. But a deal is a deal (and I’m very good at understanding deals). He got his money and I got the jacket.
And my husband got his present to his absolute astonishment. He kept saying, but… but this is the Hungarian’s jacket. But it’s his jacket, for God’s sake! How did you manage? Those questions constituted my reward. I never do anything for free. He gave me his astonished face. In addition I got it confirmed that I was right. About the jacket suiting him more. So twice-over, my insight was rewarded by a mighty sight.
The things I see for today’s moment of astonishment? That shall remain a secret for now.
Happy birthday!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
COLD CASE
For Manna
Today it’s been 11 years since my mother died. She always had a fancy for dying in such time so that she might be buried on Easter day. This actually happened. Though quite accidentally. Those believing in extra-sensory perception would say, yeah right. Those who like to fantasize would take it as an innocent coincidence. Mother fell in the second category. Though she also believed things. Like, she could never understand why every time she went to visit a friend in a nut house, the whole goddamned place would go quiet. Once she was almost offered a job there. “Imagine,” the head psychiatrist said, “all the crazies gone silent without the help of pills.” But mother was an anti-psychiatrist. She would have liked Foucault, had she read him. Which she never did. She was more into counting. Today we do this. Tomorrow we do that. Today we remember this. Tomorrow we forget that. Mother was making history, even though she was also against history. Mother never looked behind, because she didn’t want to lose life. “History, what a silly idea,” she would say. “Haven’t people ever heard of space?” All talk about time depressed her. That’s why, to make sure that I wouldn’t waste mine the day she was gone, she bought a shroud and the other arsenal that goes into a coffin time before. Like, 20 years before. The shroud was dusty and smelled of chocolate. On the catafalque, when I leaned over to kiss her cold lips, her body smelled of monoi oil. “If we can’t escape death, at least we can eat it.” I hear mother laughing from beyond the grave. She liked aphorisms, and so do I.
Today it’s been 11 years since my mother died. She always had a fancy for dying in such time so that she might be buried on Easter day. This actually happened. Though quite accidentally. Those believing in extra-sensory perception would say, yeah right. Those who like to fantasize would take it as an innocent coincidence. Mother fell in the second category. Though she also believed things. Like, she could never understand why every time she went to visit a friend in a nut house, the whole goddamned place would go quiet. Once she was almost offered a job there. “Imagine,” the head psychiatrist said, “all the crazies gone silent without the help of pills.” But mother was an anti-psychiatrist. She would have liked Foucault, had she read him. Which she never did. She was more into counting. Today we do this. Tomorrow we do that. Today we remember this. Tomorrow we forget that. Mother was making history, even though she was also against history. Mother never looked behind, because she didn’t want to lose life. “History, what a silly idea,” she would say. “Haven’t people ever heard of space?” All talk about time depressed her. That’s why, to make sure that I wouldn’t waste mine the day she was gone, she bought a shroud and the other arsenal that goes into a coffin time before. Like, 20 years before. The shroud was dusty and smelled of chocolate. On the catafalque, when I leaned over to kiss her cold lips, her body smelled of monoi oil. “If we can’t escape death, at least we can eat it.” I hear mother laughing from beyond the grave. She liked aphorisms, and so do I.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
SELF-ANTHROPOMORPHISM
Every day I decide that I can write a whole book on contradiction in one day, but not today. Lo, I’ve just (kind of) contradicted myself. Damn. This is what I mean. Vincent’s talk today about the liar’s paradox reminded me of why I like paradoxical statements, recursive statements, loopy statements, and the like. Because they never go anywhere. The closer we come to understanding this set:
The following sentence is false.
The preceding sentence is true.
the further away are we from understanding. What we do instead is experience the dimension of space vs. linearity, vacuum vs. fulfillment. There is a constant tension in the oscillation between reflexivity and self-reflexivity. Paradoxical statements are the opposite of metaphysics. They spring from a passion for infinity. So, let my book on contradiction be very short. It can begin with this statement: The liar’s paradox is an anthropodicy.
The following sentence is false.
The preceding sentence is true.
the further away are we from understanding. What we do instead is experience the dimension of space vs. linearity, vacuum vs. fulfillment. There is a constant tension in the oscillation between reflexivity and self-reflexivity. Paradoxical statements are the opposite of metaphysics. They spring from a passion for infinity. So, let my book on contradiction be very short. It can begin with this statement: The liar’s paradox is an anthropodicy.
Monday, April 13, 2009
IN TIME
It goes to show that letting people know about your whereabouts might inspire them to do something. Love you, do anything for you, or even dream about you. Upon my return from Sweden, here's what my friend, the very fine poet Robert Gibbons, sent me. He then allowed me to use his words right here so that others may enjoy them, or that inspiration may continue.
The Entire Stretch of Time
They must have taken some kind of vow of silence on their retreat, for I missed
hearing from them the entire stretch of Time, but realized the meaning of the
silence, which is essentially a way to return to words in some better, deeper form.
They couldn’t escape the cosmic realm of communication, however, showing up
together in the dream this morning, both working hard at their desks, typing, Bent
then turning back to make copies, Camelia with her face straight ahead, typing,
designing brochures in red & black & white for various projects & recipes. Bent
left the room for a while, so I paid more attention to her, lips full just like those
she used in the painting, the painting appearing, too, behind her on the dream
wall. I kept to my own vows in the dream, imagination not allowed to run too
wild, although some guy showed up in the corridor behind me naked & nodding
to me, I wondered if Camelia saw him, or whether it was all part of the Swedish
spa where they both spent their Easter retreat, incongruously & uncanny, though,
here with me at the same Time in Portland, working away as the unconscious is
prone to do during sleep, retreat, or no. Didn’t recall the visit right away until
later, when wanting to write to them, but expecting no answer, refrained, satisfied
by the dutiful appearance they both put in in the dream. -- (Robert Gibbons)
The Entire Stretch of Time
They must have taken some kind of vow of silence on their retreat, for I missed
hearing from them the entire stretch of Time, but realized the meaning of the
silence, which is essentially a way to return to words in some better, deeper form.
They couldn’t escape the cosmic realm of communication, however, showing up
together in the dream this morning, both working hard at their desks, typing, Bent
then turning back to make copies, Camelia with her face straight ahead, typing,
designing brochures in red & black & white for various projects & recipes. Bent
left the room for a while, so I paid more attention to her, lips full just like those
she used in the painting, the painting appearing, too, behind her on the dream
wall. I kept to my own vows in the dream, imagination not allowed to run too
wild, although some guy showed up in the corridor behind me naked & nodding
to me, I wondered if Camelia saw him, or whether it was all part of the Swedish
spa where they both spent their Easter retreat, incongruously & uncanny, though,
here with me at the same Time in Portland, working away as the unconscious is
prone to do during sleep, retreat, or no. Didn’t recall the visit right away until
later, when wanting to write to them, but expecting no answer, refrained, satisfied
by the dutiful appearance they both put in in the dream. -- (Robert Gibbons)
Saturday, April 11, 2009
CONVICTION
Watching the petroglyphs in Bohuslän, and considering the cosmic relations in the drawings on the stone, the only thought that came to my mind was a cliché: time passes and so do we. Meanwhile, today, a whole lot of people believe in resurrection. My Romanian greeting on Easter day goes to them: Christos a Inviat! The rest can watch Naji Hakim on the organ. They will also end up believing something. In excelsis!
Friday, April 10, 2009
LANE-SHIFT
On my way to the spa, the Vann spa by the Gullmarn fjord in the beautiful countryside outside Lysekil in Sweden, I decide that I want to spend the Easter holiday eating fish, oysters, and drinking champagne. Well, that decision came to an end as soon as I was standing in front of the cafeteria on the Stena Line catamaran to Göteborg. They served corn on the cob and grits. That vision catapulted me straight to the southern states in the US – from Georgia, Florida, and Tennessee, to Kentucky. I threw myself at the whole thing and suspended my belief in fish. All the better, as later today the food paths I crossed got to be as intersected as the spaghetti junction in Atlanta – my god, I should mention at this point that I love to drive to the most remote places in that country. In Sweden, things are more predictable, that is, unless you get to eat at a place that has a celebrity chef. And don’t we all love to be surprised by what they have to offer? Anticipating my whole spa treatment tomorrow – hot oils, ayurveda and classic massage, lavender body wraps, and skinny bathing in pools that have water equivalating the one in the ocean, plus sauna, steam and the like, and more etc, etc, etc. – I let Rasmus Strand, THE expert in mackerel – too bad about the wrong season, however – surprise me.
Let’s just put it this way. The food was so divine that it made me forget about myself. I didn’t even ask myself this evening what the meaning of life was. Now, the thing about divine food is that 1) it makes you cry, 2) it makes you impart your thoughts to others, in thought – which means that my head was populated suddenly not only by the few very special ones, whom, by the way I always carry with me all the time, but they also went to the other special ones who also know how to eat (Horia, my friend, a glass was raised to you); and 3) it makes you fantasize. So here’s my fantasy. I connect so strongly with the chef that he telepathically catches my thoughts of appreciation. He comes to my table. As he knows I’m a master at assessing taste, he bows to me and says: “my queen, I know exactly what you want, as a last bite.” He takes my hand and brings me to the kitchen. There he hands me the bowl with roasted to perfection seeds, especially sun flower. The same ones that sprinkled my starter, a supreme scallop carpaccio. He says: “you are welcome to bury your head in it.” I do, and I die. Pax vobiscum.
Let’s just put it this way. The food was so divine that it made me forget about myself. I didn’t even ask myself this evening what the meaning of life was. Now, the thing about divine food is that 1) it makes you cry, 2) it makes you impart your thoughts to others, in thought – which means that my head was populated suddenly not only by the few very special ones, whom, by the way I always carry with me all the time, but they also went to the other special ones who also know how to eat (Horia, my friend, a glass was raised to you); and 3) it makes you fantasize. So here’s my fantasy. I connect so strongly with the chef that he telepathically catches my thoughts of appreciation. He comes to my table. As he knows I’m a master at assessing taste, he bows to me and says: “my queen, I know exactly what you want, as a last bite.” He takes my hand and brings me to the kitchen. There he hands me the bowl with roasted to perfection seeds, especially sun flower. The same ones that sprinkled my starter, a supreme scallop carpaccio. He says: “you are welcome to bury your head in it.” I do, and I die. Pax vobiscum.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
PATIENCE THEORY
On game theory, a lot has been written since the 40s. And although today Vincent hasn’t mentioned his editorial work together with Pelle Hansen in Game Theory: 5 Questions (2008) let’s just plug his effort here by way of making reference to one of the newest books in the field. Without too much ado, let’s then summarize the very gist of the 5 minute talk by agreeing with Vincent that Obama won his election because: (1) he is familiar with game theory – they teach it at Harvard – and (2), because he emphasizes cooperation in a game in which ideally everyone wins rather than have a situation when one party wins at the expense of the other. So, according to Vincent, Obama won because he devised strategies that mostly, and at least seemingly, allow for win/win situations.This is all very good, but what I would have liked to hear is in fact not so much about the math in game theory that allows for rational moves, as Vincent suggested, but the human touch that allows for following mind strategies. Particularly patience. If you ask me, Obama won because he was good at waiting – for the others to make a wrong move, make fools of themselves, or simply go for maximizing the potential wins that obviously can only serve one group of people and not all of them. This latter situation, had it occured more blatantly, would have enabled Obama quite nicely to even make an indexical gesture, such as the rising of his finger and enunciate to the people: ‘see, the other candidate only thinks of himself.’ Bad!
So, game theory. It’s very simple really. The one with the best waiting ability wins. Of course, the reason why waiting in a game is so fascinating is because it’s based on watching closely what is going on. You cognize, not only rationally, but also, and mainly emotionally. Only so are you capable of figuring out whether the opponent is above, below, or on a par with you, intelligence-wise. Emotionally, moreover, we are also free to go the exegetical way, rather than merely the mathematical way. We go with the Bible – and the Baptists quoting it. There must be a reason why we read these words in James 1:4, and why a trillion Americans (dead and alive) are still buying the message: “But let patience (endurance) have its perfect work, that ye may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” (Perhaps only style. Which is important in any game. Fashion-wise, here’s a piece of advice: Vincent, my dear, lose the sweatshirt. The color can stay.)
Saturday, April 4, 2009
DEMONSTRATION
Give me Norway, and I’m yours. My husband, who is very very smart, knows what to do when I worry, when I feel guilty, or get mathematical (read the latter as crazy). Over dinner at the Caribbean restaurant in Oslo, Lemmon Grass, he tells me: “you, know, I know you. You want Norway for breakfast, for lunch, and for dinner. And if you get to do the dishes in a bathtub, you’re ecstatic.” Damn right, I nod, and then say that Wittgenstein is not the worst model one could do with. He did all of the above, and was in love with Norway. Infinitely in love. Those with a penchant for infinity understand. Those with a penchant for actual infinity, rather than merely potential one, are ready to die, or go bonkers on the spot while swooning over mathematical analysis (no algebra for us, thank you very much).
So I eat lamb carré, drink a divine Portuguese wine, after a black Bacardi – straight shot – lick my fingers grand style, and then, over a mango crème brulée tell my husband that people who are capable of demonstrative silence fascinate the shit out of me. Here’s the argument (or part of it, as I remember it – good food always interferes with my memory).
Demonstrative silence is interesting because it refutes most questions. Particularly the most obvious ones. Faced with a silent subject, the question ‘what are you trying to demonstrate’ becomes not only redundant, but is in fact downright stupid. Thus I get interested in the situation when questions such as these cannot be posed. For, what then? One is still forced to understand something, but what, if this something is not articulated in words? Bypassing the materiality of words involves a process through which knowledge can be said to be brought about not by verbal eloquence but by a sensual kind. One understands by sensing. So far so good, where the interlocutor is concerned. If you get it, you get it, and if you don’t, you don’t. (At this point I totally get into the reggae rhythm, swing my chair by balancing it on its two legs, and sense that I’m on to something). Namely that where the active agent is concerned – the one who keeps silent – saying nothing requires assuming precisely this risk: that no one gets it. Which means that ultimately a silent act must be directed first and foremost to no one before it is addressed to someone. This takes not only a lot of guts and balls but also a lot of trust. Infinite trust. (At this point, as the Bacardi works its way through my body, I get a shivering thought.) If I should ever be the recipient of such trust, how can I ever betray it? I pose this question to myself, as I’m ready to move north, to inhabit a mountain, perhaps even in the Arctic. But I don’t answer it. Not yet. Meanwhile, I praise God for smart husbands and dead mathematicians. Other things can wait. Others can wait.
So I eat lamb carré, drink a divine Portuguese wine, after a black Bacardi – straight shot – lick my fingers grand style, and then, over a mango crème brulée tell my husband that people who are capable of demonstrative silence fascinate the shit out of me. Here’s the argument (or part of it, as I remember it – good food always interferes with my memory).
Demonstrative silence is interesting because it refutes most questions. Particularly the most obvious ones. Faced with a silent subject, the question ‘what are you trying to demonstrate’ becomes not only redundant, but is in fact downright stupid. Thus I get interested in the situation when questions such as these cannot be posed. For, what then? One is still forced to understand something, but what, if this something is not articulated in words? Bypassing the materiality of words involves a process through which knowledge can be said to be brought about not by verbal eloquence but by a sensual kind. One understands by sensing. So far so good, where the interlocutor is concerned. If you get it, you get it, and if you don’t, you don’t. (At this point I totally get into the reggae rhythm, swing my chair by balancing it on its two legs, and sense that I’m on to something). Namely that where the active agent is concerned – the one who keeps silent – saying nothing requires assuming precisely this risk: that no one gets it. Which means that ultimately a silent act must be directed first and foremost to no one before it is addressed to someone. This takes not only a lot of guts and balls but also a lot of trust. Infinite trust. (At this point, as the Bacardi works its way through my body, I get a shivering thought.) If I should ever be the recipient of such trust, how can I ever betray it? I pose this question to myself, as I’m ready to move north, to inhabit a mountain, perhaps even in the Arctic. But I don’t answer it. Not yet. Meanwhile, I praise God for smart husbands and dead mathematicians. Other things can wait. Others can wait.
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