Thursday, April 19, 2012

Bjørn Magnhildøen

Busy end

Are mathematical objects real? I will have a shower. Do numbers clean
themselves? Where's the dust of reality? Is mathematics virtual maybe?
"Mathematics is", anything can is, grammar is subjective, subject to
arbitrary dreams, dreams of disjoint set of trains. Is strange the
journey, the "Road to reality", then what is this noise that I live
in? The water pressure pump is reverbrating into the bedroom, the
livingroom, dread, its haunted breathing. When heat was understood as
molecular noise, did it really stop to haunt us? Busy end, end-trope,
endtropy, why does the noise continue to haunt me? Past or future?
Mathematics is was, the grammar followed the sugar trails of the ants.
Did the molecules' break-your-head short-cut or short-circuit? The
face you see in the bubble soap water doesn't exist, ex-ist,
has-been... but surely the actual meets the potential "somewhere"?
There's a meeting in the quantum of reality, but one gets angry when
reality is taken away from experiences. Would you call anger real?
This realness is cool, it bugs you, calms down to kelvin whistle "I've
got the world on a string". String of what? Strings? You immediately
weave an arabic flying carpet. It's amazing we conquered the air, said
the birds, limited in size by the eggs, let's fly instead. Dread
though. The caterpillar who didn't want to become a butterfly. Silk
though, the finest strings predicting extra dimensions, with extra
quality and added flavour of strangeness, bottomness, topness, all
large deep freshwater lakes. If you turn it upside down it's like
flying. The worm road reality, where trees grow out of eggs, color
charged traffic lights produce orange which is eaten while you wait,
see wait I'm in. Green venetian blinds and the double-slit experiment,
the sounding waves are noisy, but particulars emerge, like car horns
looking for mates, you ever saw cars mating?, only on week-ends with
posing deads. Nights are somewhat calmer, as if the sun was the
perpetrator, heat-noise. You are naked in the dark, or you are dark in
the naked? This noise might be the lack of skin. The eye dresses up
while the ear heats up (air haits?) (and you dress down). Tiny rooms
and broad avenues, the claustrophobia of sound, and eyes wide. Numbers
are like eyes. McLuhan saw them as the tactile sense, whether or not
he believed in the platonic realm of mathematics. The virtual eye,
imaginary numbers. This long string, is more like sound, the ant trail
sugar use grammar, and like the heat end and break-your-head
short-circuit labyrinth. Maybe since sound only have one dimension?
Flat out, but then space is created by it; while with the eye, maybe
virtuality, space deconstructed. What about the long number string? Is
it clean or dirty? A bit dirty the dirty bit - a memory that has been
modified by the CPU, but not yet written back to storage. Because it's
too busy and too noisy. Squeezed between subject and object. Maybe the
numbers clean themselves if they get dirty. The soap is another
number, what about the long irrational number string? It dreams of
transportation trouble, of itself stop, but doesn't. So did it exist
before it was computed, the unknown journey, the uncertain story? It
says "desert" in the search field, of grains of sand, all alike and
all different, busy heat, labyrinth end, the dry rambla, "O king of
time and substance and cipher of the century! In Babylonia didst thou
attempt to make me lose my way in a labyrinth of brass with many
stairways, doors, and walls; now the Powerful One has seen fit to
allow me to show thee mine, which has no stairways to climb, nor doors
to force, nor wearying galleries to wander through, nor walls to
impede thy passage." (J. L. Borges, The two kings and the two


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