Following the philosophical trail from
Hermetic philosophy to physics.
"God is an intelligible sphere, whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere." - Trismegistus (3rd C.)
"The world is the infinite effect of an infinite cause, for it is within us even more than we are within ourselves." - Giordano Bruno (14th C.)
"The universe is an infinite sphere, whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere." - Pascal (15th C.)
It's interesting to note that in the original manuscript Pascal first wrote the word
effroyable: "a fearful sphere" in place of
infinite. From which I surmise that he's following this logic :
"[This idea leads man] to feel lost in space and time. In time, because if the future and the past are infinite, there can not really be a when. In space, because if every being is equidistant from the infinite and the infinitesimal center, neither can there be a where. So, no man exists at a certain time, at a certain place, and no one knows the size of his own countenance." - Jorge Luis Borges
Following the philosophical trail from Hermetic philosophy to physics.
1 comment:
"[This idea leads man] to feel lost in space and time. In time, because if the future and the past are infinite, there can not really be a when. In space, because if every being is equidistant from the infinite and the infinitesimal center, neither can there be a where. So, no man exists at a certain time, at a certain place, and no one knows the size of his own countenance." - Jorge Luis Borges
That explains this morning's encounter with my late grandmother. It left me feeling so peculiar that I felt I should write it all down, which I did. It isn't a work of art, but the following words are a transcription of the visitation and its lingering effect exactly as it transpired at 7:35 a.m. on September 10:
I awoke early, and the house was quiet. Silence except for some birds outside and the motor of a passing collection truck. Again, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of my grandmother.
We began a casual conversation as though she were here in the flesh, casually enjoying a morning visit and coffee. She liked my coffee, but said it was a bit too strong for her taste. We talked about everyday things: what I would do that afternoon; and of course she asked after Richard, who was still sleeping.
I couldn't take it anymore. I asked her if she was actually in Heaven, and if such a place exists. A that moment, her voice seemed to fade in and out, and her face became blurry. When she came back into focus she was hoarse, and cleared her throat as she said, "Sorry about that. It happens sometimes, you know."
I told her it was okay-but it wasn't.
I wanted to see her, and hear her real voice. She told me, "What on earth do you mean? I'm sitting right here talking to you, aren't I?"
"No, no, no. I can't SEE you or HEAR you. Not the right way. How do I know this isn't just in my imagination?"
She answered, right away,
"Imagination is part of the field of reality. Nothing exists; just what we think is so."
I was frustrated by this. I told her to wait, so I could get a pen and write all this down. I never know when she'll be back. She sits here on the sofa now, (at the time I wrote this) as patiently as she would when she was alive.
“I’m not going anywhere, hun, unless you want me to.”
I asked her to please stay. Time is trying to catch up with us.
In spite of myself, I began to weep.
“Why did you die? It’s not enough that I have Richard, or anyone-I need you to be here. Why did you die? Why can’t you exist in the flesh and sit here with me, or let me call you on the telephone and we’ll talk for an hour or more, the way we did. Do you remember? I want you to go back there, to that time, in your apartment. I don’t like it like this.”
I was sobbing uncontrollably now. She said, “ I’m sorry, hon. I would if I could, you know I’d do anything for you.”
“But why can’t you?! I just don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t understand, I know that,” she said.
“Well did you think it was your time to go? Aren’t you sad that you are gone? Don’t you miss being alive at all? Do you miss us? We’re all still here.”
“Oh yeah, I think it was my time to go honey. That’s what happened, so it was my time. But I’m not sad. I miss talking to you, but you know all you have to do is call me and I’ll come talk to you. We’ll just talk up a storm. Don’t be sad sweetie.”
“But I AM sad. I’m sad that you’re not here, not really here. And I have to go on and live with this pain for the rest of my life. You no longer know what it’s like.”
“I know you hate it sweetie, but it will get easier. You just give it some time. You and Richard have got so much to do You won’t even know I’m gone.”
“I will know, Mimi.”
“”Well, Richard will be waking up soon," she said.
“I love you, Mimi.”
“I love you, too, sweetie. With all of my heart.”
“Maybe next time you come we can sit outside on the stoop again.”
“Well, that would be nice. We can do that. You just get to work now, because you’ve got something to write about.”
That was the end of our conversation. Then I felt, or tried to feel, her departing embrace. I think I detected the faintest essence of it, or perhaps I was remembering what it used to feel like. But it was a poor, puff cloud of a substitute, that only left me longing for the real thing. My body felt hot, and the tears streaming down my cheeks were even hotter.
I tried to call her back, but she was gone. The only evidence I have that she was with me are these pages, but they are of little worth. There is no substance, just bends and whirlpools of thought. I couldn’t coherently mold together what remained of the morning, or grasp my grandmother’s (imagined?) visit, or understand why I felt the urgency to record it.
Afterwards, everything was dull.
There are huge gaps of space in the air around me that extend from the sofa in the living room all the way to the edge of the dining room table. I can faintly perceive what I can only describe as the color and murmur of stale air.
I grappled with this emptiness and I couldn’t place it. I also wasn’t a part of it.
Nothing felt tangible anymore, like the noise of crumpled paper from when I was a child. Exhausted, I knew this thin atmosphere would be with me all afternoon. There was nothing I could think, feel, or touch to bring back the reality (I call it that for lack of a better word) in which the atmosphere is thick, and full, and filed with dreams and voices. Only this inescapable stillness. I couldn’t hide from it either, and so, my tears now dry, I returned to my coffee.
Post a Comment