books/idumea/content/notes.tex

\paragraph{Page \pageref{prophet}} 
\emph{But you are eternity and you are the mirror.}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From \emph{The Prophet.}

I had originlly intended to use the lyrics from the hymn titled ``Idumea'', which is included in the next appendix, but– ah! For some reason, it did not fit. I could not tell you why, dear reader. Perhaps it was the strong Christian nature of the text after a certain point, which fit strangely for the Odists, notably Jewish as they are. It, after all, is what spurred the language at the end of my\ldots we shall call it a little meltdown at the end, there, yes?

Perhaps it was that, as the story filled out within the middle, it just did not fit. I, Rye, suffered, perhaps. I wailed, ``What will become of me?'' I am the one who was overcome by overflow. I promise you, my friends, I \emph{promise} you, however, that this is not my story. The judgment is upon my head for what I have done, but it is not my story. This story belongs to The Woman.

No. Instead, I chose the words of Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved. The Woman was life and she was the veil. We are eternity and the System is the mirror.\pagebreak

\paragraph{Page \pageref{pinocchio}}
\emph{Once upon a time there was–}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Collodi:

\begin{quote}
Once upon a time there was–

``A king?'' my little readers will immediately say.

No, children, you are mistaken. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not fine wood, but a simple piece of wood from the wood yard,—the kind we put in the stoves and fireplaces so as to make a fire and heat the rooms.

I do not know how it happened, but one beautiful day a certain old woodcutter found a piece of this kind of wood in his shop. The name of the old man was Antonio, but everybody called him Master Cherry on account of the point of his nose, which was always shiny and purplish, just like a ripe cherry\ldots
\end{quote}

\noindent When first I began to write, back when some saner me put pen to paper, I had intended to write the story of Pinocchio in reverse. ``Ah!'' I thought. ``Perhaps I can very heavy-handed with it, too. Should the main character be named Occhioni P.? Will they try turning themselves into a literal puppet? Will they design sims to include the big fish? Perhaps they will find their Geppetto—G. from Oteppe, Belgium—who unmakes them, and then a blue fairy, a sympathetic systech, kicks them into quitting. Will I tell it as a fairy tale?''

We see how well I have stuck to that plan, yes?

I spoke of this with writer friends, and one of them, the ever delightful Seras of the CERES clade, quipped that this sounded just like the escape from samsara, the cycle of suffering, and I was, as the saying goes, off to the races.

Now here I am, once more coming down from my overflow, once more feeling somewhat grounded, the world around once more made of things which are not yet more words, and I have to contend with the reality that this remains, for the most part, a funny little note, and that this story no longer quite reads as that real-boy-to-inanimate-tree pipeline, tired trope that I am sure it is.

\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-circles}}
[\ldots] \emph{am I a falcon, a storm, or a great song?}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From Rilke:

\begin{verse}
Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,\\
die sich über die Dinge ziehn.\\
Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,\\
aber versuchen will ich ihn.
 
Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,\\
und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;\\
und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm\\
oder ein großer Gesang.

\secdiv

I live my life in ever-widening circles\\
that stretch themselves out over the world.\\
I may not complete this last one\\
but I will give myself to it.
 
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.\\
and I circle for thousands of years\\
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,\\
a storm, or a great song? 
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Pages \pageref{paz1}, \pageref{paz2}, and \pageref{paz3}}
[\ldots] \emph{as the poet says, shared} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Paz:

\begin{verse}
Tendidos en la yerba \\
una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
Comen naranjas, cambian besos\\
como las olas cambian sus espumas.

Tendidos en la playa\\
una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
Comen limones, cambian beso\\
como las nubes cambian espumas.

Tendidos bajo tierra\\
una muchacha y un muchacho.\\
No dicen nada, no se besan,\\
cambian silencio por silencio.

\secdiv

Lying in the grass\\
a girl and a boy.\\
Eating oranges, exchanging kisses\\
like the waves exchanging their foam.

Lying on the beach\\
a girl and a boy.\\
Eating limes, exchanging kisses\\
like the clouds exchanging foam.

Lying underground\\
a girl and a boy.\\
Saying nothing, nor kissing\\
exchanging silence for silence.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{timo}}
[\ldots] \emph{there was a spot between joy and fear, a place of too much meaning} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. my own work:

\begin{verse}
Inter ĝuo kaj timo\\
Estas loko de tro da signifo.\\
Apud kompreno, ekster saĝo,\\
Tamen ĝi tutampleksas.\\
Mi kompareble malgrandas\\
Kaj ĝi tro granda estas.\\
Nekomprenebla\\
Nekontestebla,\\
Senmova kaj ĉiam ŝanĝiĝema.

\secdiv

Between joy and fear\\
Is a place of too much meaning.\\
Next to understanding, outside wisdom,\\
It nonetheless expands.\\
I’m so small beside it\\
and it is too big.\\
Incomprehensible,\\
Incontestible,\\
Unmoving and always changing.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{motes}}
I have written extensively on these hyper-black shapes that The Child paints and more about her besides in \emph{Motes Played}. A little book for little skunks, yes? For she deserves her story told—and just so! Just like this! A tale written in a style befitting her—as much as does The Woman.

\paragraph{Page \pageref{birds}}
\emph{Why do birds, as the poet says, suddenly appear} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. The Carpenters:

\begin{verse}
Why do birds suddenly appear, ev'ry time you are near?\\
Just like me, they long to be close to you\\
Why do stars fall down from the sky, ev'ry time you walk by?\\
Just like me, they long to be close to you
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{blake}}
[\ldots] \emph{a Blakean energetic hell.}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From Blake:

\begin{quote}
Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.

From these contraries spring what the religious call Good and Evil. Good is the passive that obeys reason; Evil is the active springing from Energy.
\end{quote}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{tree-writing}}
[\ldots] \emph{that has been my dream.}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent I have dreamed of turning into a tree for years and years and years and years and years, now.

For instance, I have written here that I put this dream into verse, and this is true, for here is a segment from a longer work:

\begin{verse}
We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,\\
and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond\\
as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,\\
took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,\\
and closed your eyes.

Beginnings are such delicate times\\
and I very nearly missed it, no chimes\\
to announce the hour of your leaving.\\
As it was, there was no time for believing\\
or not in the next moments.

Your fingers crawled beneath the soil\\
and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.\\
Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,\\
Spelling subtle incantations and charms\\
to the chaos of growth.

You bowed your head and from your crown\\
sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,\\
soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.\\
The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems\\
soon arched skyward.

You sprouted and grew, taking root\\
in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.\\
Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.\\
Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime\\
of indecency.

Your face, your face! In your face was such peace\\
as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease\\
on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.\\
I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts\\
as your final display showed.

Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.\\
Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole\\
bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,\\
your fingers, knees, and toes stood\\
as thirsty roots.

I stood a while by the tree that was you,\\
then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew\\
about time, transformation, death and change.\\
I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,\\
your gentle apotheosis.
\end{verse}

\noindent I have also written here that I put this dream into prose, and this is also true, for her is a segment from a short story:

\begin{quote}
And finally, the mirroring was broken as the \emph{her} that was not her slid \emph{her} fingers up over her wrist and gently guided her hand down toward the soil, loamy and damp, and she knew then that she must spread her fingers and dig them down into the earth, there by the stairs which were a finger pointing at God such that she was in turn pointing at…at what? At the owner of that hand? At the owner of that finger?

And as she did so, she felt that the dirt beneath her fingernails took root, that her nails themselves must have been rootlets and that her arm a stolon, that her whole body was the runner for some tree, some entity other than herself, for at that point, she took root.

And her fingers crawled beneath the soil, and drank of the water there, and tasted the nutrients, and found purchase beneath the layer of loam and humus.

And there, her fingers curled around the God-stone, and indeed, she knew it as she felt it, amber with a kernel of pain embedded within.

And even as the bark crawled up her arm, she saw her Doppelgänger stand and smile to her. A dreamy smile; not kind, not cruel, not knowing, not ignorant. Just a dreamy, inevitable smile.

And she felt growth accelerate as, bound now to the earth, her bones became wood and her muscles loosened, unwound, and thus unbound began to lengthen, to strengthen, to arch skyward, seeking stars, seeking God.
\end{quote}

\noindent Do I repeat myself? Very well, I repeat myself. I am beholden to my dreams.

And yet! And yet, when writing the final chapter, even through the heat of the moment and the blood rushing in my ears, I began to feel within a flush of embarrassment. How indulgent it is to share this again! How indulgent, my friends, to let the dream take me again that it might shape my words! Even as I wrote, even as I cried, sitting at my desk (or trying to!), sobbing in front of my words, I struggled with feeling like this was somehow \emph{too} indulgent.

I strive still to stifle that puritanical worrywart within, even so many years on.

\paragraph{Page \pageref{nasturtiums}}
[\ldots] \emph{perhaps columbines perhaps nasturtiums} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent The Musician shared with me a letter and My Friend several journal entries, but, ah–! If I share them here, I will fall once more to crying. You may find them in their entirety in \emph{Marsh}, a work written by a braver me.

I will say, however, that that letter surrounded nasturtiums and was written the night Muse quit, and those diary entries were written by My Friend, a recounting of Beckoning's memories, to comfort The Musician in her grief.

\paragraph{Page \pageref{psalm13}}
(quoted directly)

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From Psalm 13:2--4:

\begin{verse}
How long, \emph{Adonai}, will You forget me always?\\
\vin How long hide Your face from me?\\
How long shall I cast about for counsel,\\
\vin sorrow in my heart all day?\\
\vin \vin How long will my enemy loom over me?\\
Regard, answer me, \emph{HaShem}, my God.\\
\vin Light up my eyes, lest I sleep death.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{qohelet}} (quoted directly)

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From Qohelet (Ecclesiastes) 1:17:

\begin{quote}
And I set my heart to know wisdom and to know revelry and folly, for this, too, is a herding of the wind.
\end{quote}

\noindent From Qohelet 2:22:

\begin{quote}
What gain is there for man in all his toil that he toils under the sun?
\end{quote}

\noindent From Qohelet 3:20:

\begin{quote}
Everything was from the dust, and everything goes back to the dust.
\end{quote}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{milosz}}
\emph{The blood of deer ripped to shreds by wolves!}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Miłosz:

\begin{verse}
a nastąpią niewinne wschody słońca\\
nad florą i fauną wyzwoloną

na pofabrycznych pustkowiach\\
wyrosną dębowe lasy\\
krew rozszarpanego przez wilki jelenia\\
nie będzie przez nikogo widziana\\
jastrząb będzie spadać na zająca\\
bez świadków

zniknie ze świata zło\\
kiedy zniknie świadomość

rzeczywiście panie Tadeuszu\\
zło (i dobro) bierze się z człowieka

\secdiv

the innocent sunrise will illuminate\\
a liberated flora and fauna

where oak forests reclaim\\
the postindustrial wasteland\\
and the blood of a deer\\
torn asunder by a pack of wolves\\
is not seen by anyone\\
a hawk falls upon a hare\\
without witness

evil disappears from the world\\
and consciousness with it

Of course, dear Tadeusz,\\
evil (and good) comes from man. 
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{rilke-doyousee}}
\emph{Do you see now the connection?}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Rilke:

\begin{verse}
Weißt du's \emph{noch} nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere\\
zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel\\
die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.

\secdiv

Do you not understand \emph{yet?} Fling from your arms the emptiness\\
into the spaces we breathe. It may be that the birds\\
will feel the expanded air in more spirited flight.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{ashes}}
[\ldots] \emph{beyond providing an instance for Ashes Denote That Fire Was.}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent From Dickinson:

\begin{verse}
Ashes denote that Fire was —\\
Revere the Grayest Pile\\
For the Departed Creature’s sake\\
That hovered there awhile —

Fire exists the first in light\\
And then consolidates\\
Only the Chemist can disclose\\
Into what Carbonates.
\end{verse}

\noindent We have always borne an obsession with Emily Dickinson. For years and years, and years and years and years she has lived within us, a remnant of some stage play we performed with our superlative friend, centuries back now.

Is it so surprising, then, that after cross-tree merging had been introduced as an option for us, that the one who would seek to collect within themself the entirety of the Ode clade—those who remain, dear readers!—would take for a name a line of Dickinson? We will be ever ourselves.

\paragraph{Page \pageref{baudelaire}}
[\ldots] \emph{perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Baudelaire via Eliot:

\begin{verse}
  \emph{Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,\\
  Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.}

  \secdiv

  Unreal city, city full of dreams,\\
  Where ghosts in broad daylight cling to passsers-by.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{graves}}
\emph{She, then, like so many leaves} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Graves:

\begin{verse}
  She, then, like snow in a dark night\\
  Fell secretly.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{enough}}
\emph{``Oh! Oh, I do believe this is some plentiful enough for me.''}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Rilke:

\begin{verse}
Und plötzlich in diesem mühsamen Nirgends, plötzlich\\
die unsägliche Stelle, wo sich das reine Zuwenig\\
unbegreiflich verwandeldt—, umspringt\\
in jenes leere Zuviel.\\
Wo die vielstellige Rechnung\\
zahlenlos aufgeht.

\secdiv

And suddenly in this toilsome nowhere, suddenly\\
the unutterable place where the merely too little\\
inscrutably mutates—, swings round\\
into that empty too much,\\
where the calculation to many digits\\
comes out number-less.
\end{verse}

\noindent One imagines that a `plentiful enough' lies at some theoretical midpoint on this limitless scale from `merely too little' to `empty too much'. One imagines it a place just outside that `toilsome nowhere'. I imagine it, my friends. I \emph{have} to imagine it! I have to imagine that Lagrange, the System, our embedded world is plentifully enough, and not some empty too much, not after so much loss.
\paragraph{Page \pageref{cummings-mbt}}
[\ldots] \emph{breathe in a million billion trillion years} [\ldots]

\vspace{1em}

\noindent Cf. Cummings:

\begin{verse}
  i put him all into my arms\\
  and staggered banged with terror through\\
  a million billion trillion stars.
\end{verse}

\paragraph{Page \pageref{x}}
{\large ×}

\vspace{1em}

\noindent I used for this work a multiplication sign (×) for the section dividers, and, my dear friends, I am still coming to terms with this decision.

There are so many possible meanings!

Are we together, The Woman and I, multiplied? When she and I, when her story and mine, are intermingled, is it some greater story? My lovely readers, I hope so! I really do. I really hope, of course, that my myriad interruptions bear their own meaning and add to the whole of things, that we together are greater than the sum of the parts. I doubt and I hope in equal measure.

Are we crossed? Do we as ideas lay across each other perpendicularly? The Woman fell into stillness and I fall still through eternal, jittery, restless movement. The woman set aside her agency, in the end, and I strive for any sense of control over myself, my language, my words and sentences and paragraphs and stories. We are diametrically opposed in so many ways. We cross each other, our paths cross each other's, we approached at a ninety degree angle, and, in the end, departed at such an angle.

Are we set beside each other as some fictional love? Some two characters set within fan fiction who love each other in a way pure or unchaste in others' minds? Do I love her? Do I love The Woman? Did she love me?

I do not know, my dear readers. I do not know these things and I do not know many more.

Perhaps, though, perhaps the × stands for the decision that I made. It is the role I played in letting The Woman, that beautiful soul who bestowed a blessing with every smile, step away from the world, for removing those blessings from us, that beauty from us, that life, that veil.

I am so, so incredibly sorry, and also rather proud of what I have done, of helping The Woman in so noble an endeavor, in equal measure.