I
In Tzersbinger a naked, pale humanoid asked me, if I would take this job to rid the cosmos of all poetry, starting with planet Earth.
Oh! What a terrible idea, I thought. How cruel, how cold! But how strangely poetic too!
My first question to the naked, pale humanoid was, “Is it an urgent job?” because I had to complete the translation of an essay on contemporary art and public space. The answer was, “Not really urgent.”
The mysterious being told me he was the agent of a “group of people” who looked at time (and everything else) from a special perspective. Indeed! Otherwise why dream of the end of poetry? But just how special was their perspective? I asked. The answer was, “It is based partly on this that time does not flow.”
I said I had heard of this before, and the naked, pale humanoid said he knew about me having heard of it, and that the so-called “special perspective” in question was not so special after all. What was important was this, that a) to rid the cosmos of all poetry was not really urgent, and b) I was offered the job. Would I take it?
I said, “Assuming this is not a joke, and if I take the job, then how much time do I have to get it done?
— A lifetime, said the naked, pale humanoid. Your lifetime.
— And how much time is that, if you happen to know about it? (I thought this could become interesting.)
— As much time as you will need,” was the answer.
Of course that did not mean, “As much time as I would want,” but exactly this, as much time as I, me, would need to get the job done. It could take me five minutes! By the way, why me? “Your name, said the naked, pale humanoid, was chosen at random from a pool of eight trillion, trillion pre-selected candidates.
— What luck! I exclaimed. What were the conditions for (unknowingly) joining that pool? I asked.
— Every one of the eight trillion, trillion pre-selected candidates wrote at least one poem—good or bad—in their lifetime,” answered the creature.
That meant only a poet could rid the cosmos of all poetry, starting with planet Earth, or so it was believed. That certainly made sense, because how could you get rid of anything unless you knew what it was or had at least of hint of it?
But how to do it? “Nobody knows, answered the naked, pale humanoid. That is why you would be given unlimited time to figure it out.”
Unlimited time, I repeated to myself. What if the way to get the job done was to stop time itself?
— Yes,” I said, and we stepped into the old conversation on the nature of time, space, motion, and everything. I asked, “If time is just another dimension of space, how come they feel different?
— Does moving up feel the same as going down or left or right? replied the creature.
— No, but that’s because of gravity.
— So moving in time doesn’t feel the same as going through the other dimensions, because of something else.
— Ok, I said, but what thing?
— What thing? Interesting question! But let us firstly distinguish two aspects of what appears to be reality. One, you cannot move freely in time. Two, it seems as if everything in the universe (you included) moved together, in the same direction, along the axis of time.”
Yes, all true! Although I thought I could remember reading about a few experiments done with lasers and other light canons, that showed photons that moved backwards, or the instantaneous transmission of information across the whole galaxy. Could those weird results have changed our understanding of the nature of time, and space, and motion? Maybe, but the ordinary experience of reality remained the same nevertheless. Why can I move freely in space, but not in time?
The naked, pale humanoid said this: “If “atoms” could move freely in four or five or six or even seven dimensions, they would have little chance to meet and associate to create more complex structures like water and oxygen, and few chances to create large molecules made up of hundreds or thousands of thousands of atoms. Extraordinary complex structures such a living cell could hardly come to be. Probabilities would be against them.
— Unless, I objected, the range of the extra dimensions was very short.
— In which case, said the humanoid, these extra dimensions would be too small for large bodies such as a protein to move freely along it.”
In Tzersbinger it was snowing. The humanoid, despite being naked (and pale), did not seem to mind the cold. As for me, I was shivering when I asked: “Is time a dimension so small that we cannot move freely along it?
— Not exactly, said the humanoid, but this reasoning could apply to the other extra dimensions.
— So what is so special about time, and why can we not move freely along it, and why does it seem as if it flows?
— And what does it all have to do with the job that is offered to you?” continued the creature.
I wanted to know, but my friend suddenly vanished. And now I wonder: Did I get the job? Did I want the job? Will the naked, pale humanoid come back and tell me: “Go for it, find a way to rid the cosmos of all poetry, starting with planet Earth!” Will I live until I…
In Tzersbinger, in the snow, I found a strange cut-off right hand, normal-sized, but made of blue Jell-O.
Then for some unknown reason I thought of a speeding truck that almost hit me some time ago—it could have been an elephant. Big, covered with snow—shaking its ears! there would have been a snow storm.
Oh! What a terrible idea, I thought. How cruel, how cold! But how strangely poetic too!
My first question to the naked, pale humanoid was, “Is it an urgent job?” because I had to complete the translation of an essay on contemporary art and public space. The answer was, “Not really urgent.”
The mysterious being told me he was the agent of a “group of people” who looked at time (and everything else) from a special perspective. Indeed! Otherwise why dream of the end of poetry? But just how special was their perspective? I asked. The answer was, “It is based partly on this that time does not flow.”
I said I had heard of this before, and the naked, pale humanoid said he knew about me having heard of it, and that the so-called “special perspective” in question was not so special after all. What was important was this, that a) to rid the cosmos of all poetry was not really urgent, and b) I was offered the job. Would I take it?
I said, “Assuming this is not a joke, and if I take the job, then how much time do I have to get it done?
— A lifetime, said the naked, pale humanoid. Your lifetime.
— And how much time is that, if you happen to know about it? (I thought this could become interesting.)
— As much time as you will need,” was the answer.
Of course that did not mean, “As much time as I would want,” but exactly this, as much time as I, me, would need to get the job done. It could take me five minutes! By the way, why me? “Your name, said the naked, pale humanoid, was chosen at random from a pool of eight trillion, trillion pre-selected candidates.
— What luck! I exclaimed. What were the conditions for (unknowingly) joining that pool? I asked.
— Every one of the eight trillion, trillion pre-selected candidates wrote at least one poem—good or bad—in their lifetime,” answered the creature.
That meant only a poet could rid the cosmos of all poetry, starting with planet Earth, or so it was believed. That certainly made sense, because how could you get rid of anything unless you knew what it was or had at least of hint of it?
But how to do it? “Nobody knows, answered the naked, pale humanoid. That is why you would be given unlimited time to figure it out.”
Unlimited time, I repeated to myself. What if the way to get the job done was to stop time itself?
II
“Time does not flow, told me the naked, pale humanoid, therefore “stopping time” is meaningless. If it doesn’t move, you can’t stop it.— Yes,” I said, and we stepped into the old conversation on the nature of time, space, motion, and everything. I asked, “If time is just another dimension of space, how come they feel different?
— Does moving up feel the same as going down or left or right? replied the creature.
— No, but that’s because of gravity.
— So moving in time doesn’t feel the same as going through the other dimensions, because of something else.
— Ok, I said, but what thing?
— What thing? Interesting question! But let us firstly distinguish two aspects of what appears to be reality. One, you cannot move freely in time. Two, it seems as if everything in the universe (you included) moved together, in the same direction, along the axis of time.”
Yes, all true! Although I thought I could remember reading about a few experiments done with lasers and other light canons, that showed photons that moved backwards, or the instantaneous transmission of information across the whole galaxy. Could those weird results have changed our understanding of the nature of time, and space, and motion? Maybe, but the ordinary experience of reality remained the same nevertheless. Why can I move freely in space, but not in time?
The naked, pale humanoid said this: “If “atoms” could move freely in four or five or six or even seven dimensions, they would have little chance to meet and associate to create more complex structures like water and oxygen, and few chances to create large molecules made up of hundreds or thousands of thousands of atoms. Extraordinary complex structures such a living cell could hardly come to be. Probabilities would be against them.
— Unless, I objected, the range of the extra dimensions was very short.
— In which case, said the humanoid, these extra dimensions would be too small for large bodies such as a protein to move freely along it.”
In Tzersbinger it was snowing. The humanoid, despite being naked (and pale), did not seem to mind the cold. As for me, I was shivering when I asked: “Is time a dimension so small that we cannot move freely along it?
— Not exactly, said the humanoid, but this reasoning could apply to the other extra dimensions.
— So what is so special about time, and why can we not move freely along it, and why does it seem as if it flows?
— And what does it all have to do with the job that is offered to you?” continued the creature.
I wanted to know, but my friend suddenly vanished. And now I wonder: Did I get the job? Did I want the job? Will the naked, pale humanoid come back and tell me: “Go for it, find a way to rid the cosmos of all poetry, starting with planet Earth!” Will I live until I…
In Tzersbinger, in the snow, I found a strange cut-off right hand, normal-sized, but made of blue Jell-O.
Then for some unknown reason I thought of a speeding truck that almost hit me some time ago—it could have been an elephant. Big, covered with snow—shaking its ears! there would have been a snow storm.
::: ::: :::
[Picture: Marcel Duchamp is playing tennis by reading_is_dangerous]
Posts
In the universe, the space is the time, the more I see far in the space, the more I see far in past.
ReplyDeleteSo, at this moment, if I look at stars, I see time ending.
Time does not flow when an eclipse goes on, the light no longer comes, and we not longer see passed it : In our present moment, that's the night in broad daylight!
It's necessary to become oneself a future going star to light up the present moment on earth,
In order to rid poetry, stars have to go out. That's not a good idea !