Today I find myself tired of ether. Of science speculation.
But numbers. Music as abstract math- that is fascinating. I should have paid more attention to the cascade of geometry. To the angles and formulas, the delicate pattern. If music is abstract math, is there an x solution? I’m not sure I want there to be. I like it more as a fractal, the pieces subdividing into smaller of the same. The notes as bricks. Or smaller, as pebbles on a cobble beach, as sand beneath the pebbles. As snow flakes building in clouds until the right saturation and down they fall. But so slowly. Then the melt and the rejoining and it’s all water in the end. Music as life-sustaining force. As fractal beneath the leaf pattern. It makes a certain amount of sense; the rhythm of pulse is in everything we touch. The potter pulls his heart-trace into clay as the vase forms, the writer’s pen shifts with breath. The small numbers build into chords and there: emerging from your throat is the song built by all of these small pieces, the sum but not the solution. I don’t think there’s an x.
The things I am learning through simple conversation. Mechanics and machinery and the small bits of numbers. How magical a constant velocity joint sounds, like an alchemical instrument made of glass and steam. I know it is more base than this, but the words of it amaze me. I am easily amazed. And I like to think of the inner workings, the bolts and the sheets of metal of different gauges, the liquids contained within. We are not so different, really. Hollow tube of a throat, vibration emanating as voice. Our broken pieces are sometimes easy to fix- a Band-Aid over bloodied knee, balm smoothed over burnt skin. Sometimes trickier, the shifting bruises of heartache with no place to point and say: here, mend.
Perhaps this is why my work so often deals clinically with bodies. Breaking apart and slicing open, examining the ligaments that keep us together. Taking a knife blade to soft flesh to find the bits beneath. Tracing ribcage to spine and back around to collar bone, to clavicle. Perhaps this is why I find wrists alluring- the thin bones delicate but strong, the movement so visible beneath thin sheet of skin.
I still haven’t written an assignment from a friend; my own poetry manifesto. But even attempting to begin has taught me more about my own aesthetic and the weak points contained in my poems. I am learning how to locate my place-holders, my easy phrases. I wonder how mechanical elements will begin to work into my words. It might become a nice counter-point to ether.