Once upon a time there was an emperor who really loved clothes. He wore clothes when he woke up in the morning, then before breakfast he changed his clothes, then before lunch he changed his clothes again, and before dinner and before bed. Then, In the middle of the night, he made instructions to wake him up so he changed his clothes again and went back to sleep.

The clothes manufacturers were making a lot of money from the emperor. A pair of skilled thieves saw an opportunity, and made a plan. They presented themselves to the emperor as master clothiers and told him they would make clothes so fine that crude people could not see them. Indeed, only those worthy of their profession would be able to see the clothes. They called the outfit “Mathematics.”

The emperor was overjoyed by the prospect of such a fine set of clothes, and gave the thieves the royal clothier’s workshop, all the silk and golden thread they would need, and of course the fee was extravagant.

Now the thieves went to work. They moved the looms, but the looms were empty, they threaded needles with no thread, and all the expensive cloth and thread was hidden in their sacks in the back of the workshop and transported to safety every night.

After a while the emperor decided they had done a lot of work by now, and sent the royal poet, a man who was uncommonly wise, to go check on the thieves’ work. The royal poet entered the workshop and asked to see the thieves work. The thieves behaved as though they were presenting fine clothes, but they had not clothes in their hands. They were showing him nothing, and the wise man decided the thieves were thieves, but these were very skilled thieves indeed. They described every feather of every crane in flight, the color and shape of every blossom, and the intricacy of patterns. Unfortunately, the wise poet was persuaded that the clothes were real, and that he was unworthy to be the Royal poet of the emperor.

He began to sweat, because he would surely lose his life if the emperor knew his poet was a fraud. “Oh what fine clothes these are. Yes these clothes, “Mathematics” as you call them, reveal patterns that show such intricacy, they go beyond my 4-dimensional imagination.” The thieves smiled in just the right way, and nodded with just the right amount of satisfaction so as to continue fooling the wise man. They were indeed most clever thieves.

The Royal Poet returned to the emperor and lauded the “Mathematics” clothes to the highest degree, and made sure to persuade the emperor, although he had no idea what the “Mathematics” clothes looked like.

Finally the thieves announced the “Mathematics” clothes were finished before the emperor. And offered that the Emperor should arrange a parade and show the “Mathematics” clothes to all his subjects.

The Emperor did just that, and when the thieves showed him nothing at all, and described the “mathematics” clothes, the Emperor was no match against the thieves description and the confirmation of the Royal Poet.

The Thieves helped the emperor to put on the “Mathematics” and the parade began. Everyone was looking at the emperors private parts and cheering as best they could, throwing flowers petals confetti, sweating at the problem of not being worthy of their various professions. It looked like every professional was going to have to wear “Mathematics.”

Luckily for everyone, there was a tradition in this part of the world of listening to children. There was a common folk belief that children were close to the Source of all people; sometimes children could say things that were very important, even more important than the emperor himself, or so they thought.

And in an lull of the fake excitement, a child burst in front of the parade and said with glee “The Emperor is naked, I can see his mushroom!”

Everyone realized the child spoke the truth and the emperor had been fooled. The thieves were long gone by then, but before they left they explained the clothes to some foreigners, who also believed the thieves, and now there are parts of the world, who don’t listen to children, and walk around naked.

You are a part of my home
We bond sometimes when I find you.
This life, you were on the edge the universe
I walk to you, so I can be with a piece of my home
Then I have to leave
Because my home broke
My home grew and shrank
It changed forms
I see a piece of my home in that cloud
I try to be there, drifting, changing
Until my home is not there anymore
And I must walk to find another piece
I do this drifting
To keep my heart whole
My heart is mended, as long as I walk
in search of a glimmer that was part of my home

Grey Takes Gold

By fearing what we do not understand
blanking our divine canvas to invite god’s test
when we return from folly to isolation
the substance of our divine tapestry is examined for miracles
and life asks us if we can not only see and touch it but enter into the making of it
we draw our hands through our hair and we find
grey, auburn, orange, gold, black.

The human nature theorem, a paradox of games, begins.
played by God and Goddess a simple game of
Black over orange, grey takes gold

All night the light northern winds
throw mist upon the window and the criss-cross of their
game-board grew and grew to be the complexity of their love.
Because complexity is size, a kingdom of the heart, a criss-cross universe whose herald
A droid or quantum, is small
compared to an exponential unfolding of uncertainty
No detangling tool could measure or permute a game that in lust and love made life
certain

Auburn to black, hairs straight as words
Cupid’s Arrows as tokens, fetishes, fish-silver and aluminum
Hair collected by crows to nest

A home in their underworld
at its nexus of Enigma
the pieces strewn.

Pick them up, here is Gold, a god with his own delusions
There is Black, not evil, no, just misunderstood
Put them on a new criss-cross game board and play
As makers of the mysteries and Gods

by Jon Clark and Andrew Nightingale

“Once I spoke the language of the flowers,


Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,


Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,


And shared a conversation with the housefly


                       in my bed.


Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,


And joined the crying of each falling dying

                       
flake of snow,


Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .


                        How did it go?


                        How did it go?”

the fact that the potency of the child fades with age is necessary, If adults had the same potency, it would tear the world apart. The most powerful people on earth are children. They observe better ask more potent questions and feel the grain of every answer, turning it in their heads with a power of thought that is only a shadow by adulthood.

To my brother

you would catch foxfire?
There is something faster than thought
Thought is a kind of fire
We are constantly burning ourselves with thought
Education is an evil we all endure, but it satisfies only a few
A reading habit is good for knowing how to avoid evil
But it satisfies no-one.
Mathematics burns hottest of the thoughts,
But foxfire is not hot, it is not ash or smoke or flame or light
it is something so pure, it has no quality
so pure and so fast
It can run down with you to hell and back without pain
if you can keep up you will leave hell so fast not a hair on your bright tail is singed.

So you want to catch foxfire
Tell the truth just once
Don't carry or bury the lie
Don't pull on the great slave-wheel that keeps our screens alight
Just once, speak what you already know, and then you must run for your life
They will chase you with all they've got
they will try to make you fall
and drag you down to burn for your truth-telling
I will whisper to you the secret of foxfire, and we will be friends.
Speak a word of it somewhere, anywhere
Whisper it to an orange blossom
Sound it inside a cave and let it echo
Scream in from the top of a hill

give it to the nightingale

and her mind-call will inform all good friends of hers,
Run now...
 Run! RUN!
RUN!


RUN!

e mensonge qui n’est plus contredit devient folie – Guy Debord

The lie that is no longer contradicted becomes folly – Guy Debord

  ·   ·

1. Apple and orange are different 2 apple and orange are both fruit. 3 The same is true of every word in every language. Therefore, I have just proven that all language including mathematics is folly

The right of it is in a Chinese Parabolic book called Journey to the West:

Having been a monk for some time now, Monkey had even better
understanding of the meaning of some sutras. In chapter ninety-three of Journey to the
West, Monkey had a conversation with Tripitaka on the interpretation of the Heart Sutra
that the Crow’s Nest Zen master had taught Tripitaka to recite. Monkey, seeing Tripitaka
was worrying again, commented that the master did not learn from the Zen master the
sutra’s proper interpretation. The master challenged Monkey asking if he knew the proper
interpretation. Monkey said emphatically that he did. Then , both fell silent. The two
junior disciples giggled and teased Monkey for what they deemed to be the latter’s
pretentiousness, for, like them, Monkey came with the background of a monster and with
no formal Buddhist training. Hearing them, Tripitaka said to the two very seriously: “Wu-
neng and Wu-ching, stop this claptrap! Wu -kung ‘ s interpretation is made in speechless
language. That’s true interpretation.” (Yu 1983, 295) This comment from Tripitaka
confirms that Monkey as the human mind is endowed with the ability to comprehend truth,

Essays on Monkey: A Classic Chinese Novel
Isabelle Ping-I Mao

Zombie

Reading a thread
a torn ribbon of mind and body
The sweat and stink of an idea happening
Now
I remember

Pulling the threads out of my mind and into electrical impulses

Bodies ruled by an overmind rot

I drank deeply, without reservation
It was blood!

"And the rain stained the brick a darker red"

His compact frame and bald head, light beard and limited facial expressions
left them fascinated by his speed, slow motion replays of each step
and how it seemed the final push could turn
inches into miles

A runner who defines his event, with each step a pause rotating around time
a being caught by wings on their hands and feet by the pulse of
a moment before impact to glide over
a memory of what is

Wings on the hands and feet and naval touching the ocean. Sleeping cliffs
in the distance with arches that lead to a history before
writing, to the first time honey was
transported to the peaks
where sunshine was all that was known
before the descent into night where claws grow from the touch
of greater grandparents and battle marred swords held by rotting leather

Dance of cutting motions, cuts that made our future and now further
through blood, flesh and the sharp stars of struggle
it all sounds easy now, the race to the end of time,
but it was a long and broken limp

skeletons invite you to hear them tell the truth
the victor invites you to focus on his point of concentration
He runs and each step is saved from landing
impossibly postponed, gliding low
each inch added to become a mile
each mile a tale we welcome but cannot hear
from the mouth with no lips

Each voice gasping as the racers low glide stretches
closer and closer to the end, paused impossibly
The moment suspended, wings on our hands and feet
Navels to the ocean
Fingers to the planets and stars.

I see no explanation

For shadow clouds to move so smooth
Over trees overloved by the sun, never a winter.
The shade of dreams passing over her constant mind
For goats and not sheep that climb a vertical cliff
Just to taste the salt of the earth

For ocean breath whispering her sighs
amidst screaming birds

Perfect is the enemy of the Good
But this...

This great Wanderer, lush and forbidding,
Is least hostile for guests

Her bones neatly in her flesh, brown skin, I am watching
Only Night can eclipse
This dark lady, full, naked and green, turning in the water

Who is she, and what color is her hair, hidden under blue hoody
What is the truth in that shape and shade of lying eyes

They are just a pattern that moths use
To make them look like she is watching