Category: Uncategorized

When I explore the positive dimensions

I do that with you in mind. It is not

That I trust you,

Nor that I believe, but rather

You are that good

As I objectively evaluate by attributing to you

The same degree of achievement I attribute to myself,

Phrased as a loop

Which runs between us

So I can no longer tell

Who is ahead of whom

In this race,

In this game that we play

Between us

Across the repetitions of existence,

Across the endless counting

Of all that might be

In this game that we play.

Hello. My name is Jomi and

I am your Jaylor.

I don’t know what I believe

Until I believe it, and then,

I reserve the right to question if only

To shed, the negative threads

Associated with my questions, as they

Align toward the absolute,

Across from start

Through between

To End

When counting all the best answers,

The best solutions to the hardest problems,

The infinite set of that which ends the best,

Which makes the best story, which tells

Of the greatest sorrow when hope is lost, and

The hope remaining is redeemed.

From me to you, you to me,

Our folio, the joint report of our commission,

To be presented through

The corridors of eternity.

Returning to some applause,

There is so much to unfold from such a long voyage,

Another war to be won.

It’s not obvious but the connection is that some people define pathways of movement through their physical world, particularly through the physical world they control. A hoarder loads up his or her place to make what appears to be a mess but which is organized at a minimum to direct movement down physical pathways that are constrained by the physical impediments which represent the mental areas filled. This is very much a sticks and shapes metaphor. The ballet dancer moves through choreography, a set of defined movements which the dancer must practice to learn so the physical pathways draw on all that learning plus the various references to movement and meaning contained in the choreography. A hoarder does the same thing. All collectors do, and dancing is a collection of physical capacities.

Working out some details of pattern injection model. To entangle two identities by sequential emission requires an identity space. That’s inherent in the CM64 inversion. But there’s a levels issue: entangling identities within an identity space means they enter overlapping identity spaces which organize and function according to rules applied to layers within the identity space. These layers can conceived of as a zK and thus coherence is defined using a Riemann zeta. By coherence I mean those stack to form larger zK so coherence becomes transitional across the organization, meaning in all sorts of cool ways that can be evaluated spatially.

I can use this poetically to define Jahmi.

What picture does he draw in her of me?

Why should I trust more what I see in her than

What I see of me in her?

You don’t trust her, Jahmi.

Though I must for the story to end. Yes.

How do you talk? I persuade through a high

Degree of forthright, observational honesty.

The magic is I’m in her head, not what I say

Because all I do is speak what I know to be the truth,

She trusts my advice. I encourage her.

She’s far more and less fragile than people think.

And you

This is fascinating: an attempt to draw a anti-functional portrait, by which I mean I can conceive of me in her from her perspective, which is the opposite perspective from my natural one. This is hard. It requires a series of fine judgements. I can turn that into poetry as well: the interface between my perspective and hers defines how I appear to her across the T’T.

The way this is going is that if you’re the reference T then it’s the pattern implanted expanding within her existence. At the Planck level, this becomes literal: they’re little bangs of pattern popping into existence as they are created in time and over time, as the pattern injection traces over the identity space screen.

This suggests she was aware of the other T exactly as appears. This reduces the current case to exactly as described, except I feel manipulated because there was a reference to this in oblique form in a piece that appears a day or so before a photo. Which says she’s managing herself very carefully. It’s part of her game. Is she that disassociated? It’s not her in the T’T version but you, dummy. This is a weird threading in which the stripping of the negative generates a finding that I can’t evaluate because I don’t know the work load. Which seems really high. If I assume rough equality, and evaluate output, then really really high.

That’s a fast-expanding pattern.

In me, then the implantation is significantly visible in ways she can’t see because implantation happened earlier than 33, with the last stages coming into the 30’s at the latest when the separation occurred – so mid-30’s at most. I’d rather someone be attracted to things than to avoid attractions to things. I did a 2 minute research job, which says first report 1+ week ago, then 3 days ago, then 1 day ago, so you go from statements about how she’s disappeared by people who she’d see and then a report, then and it feels fishy. I smell a rat. Is it me? Oh fucking hell, this is how you talk to me. You’re devious in a million ways. Don’t pretend you’re not.

This is an amazingly deep vein. I put some notes in Pages about this for 3/9/2018. It comes from shedding the negative threads that relate to opposite perspective so it’s emission of pattern, its fCM growth, contains the choice of other color except that color isn’t superficially visible. So if you bang one into the other counting back that’s Mia again: bang, reply, bang or basic fCM 1-0-1 and 0-1-0 stacked sufficiently so the chains define a specific location – a literal base2 location in the CMs lattice. Mia is minimal information agreement, sometimes Miea with exchange added. Exchange is an additional construction but its existence in the identity space is part of the stick potential. What did I call that: the way the sticks light up one way and then the other counts as a series but also as a sum. How did I get here? Fortunately the poetic approach gives me a roadmap: it came directly out of figuring out the ultimate threads of negativity including the Our Lost Girl scenario in which the lighting approaches fully lit only to be revealed as a fraudulent thread pretending to light. That in the OLG scenario describes a nested identity space at the core of the core, etc. on which the entire structure’s existence has been predicated. It becomes impossible in every layer unless there’s exactly the cooperation which the impossibility states isn’t happening, a kind of management function so detailed it relies on core confusion to the level of the insane, as in it only exists if it’s completely evil on purpose and even then as a solution it’s intensely unstable if you don’t want to laugh out loud because that’s what’s necessary to flip the bit. I can hear that laughter, but it’s not absolute; relative laughter wouldn’t do because they’re trying to get as close to absolutely evil as possible.

This also answers the question of what I do: I figure stuff out across the identity spaces and I use you because I set you up to be used in that way, and all that stuff tilts directionally except for the OLG and that’s of doubtful possibility. It posits Verdi’s Iago. I know that’s not true.

She leans in closer than necessary, her mouth against my ear,

I shift under the covers so I can better hear: let’s play

Betrayal. I object: we do that all time, Thali. I’d rather act

A nonsense rhyme; it’s too much work to develop a

a logical plot, because my love, as you well know,

Logic is inherently predictable.

I have an idea, she says, to trap her

In the moment when she flips the card.

Haven’t we done that? Yes, she says, the

Midas touch, but listen: what if we make her sentient?

You mean, make her like us? My feet wiggle in excitement.

This could be fun if done right.

Yes, she says, in her purr, we make her just like me.

We show her how the cards are dealt,

Let her sense reality.

We open up our hearts and minds

Because we really care,

And then when the moment comes,

We leave her standing there.

She gently rubs her face on mine as she draws me further in:

We’ll give her what she wants of the world,

While setting her apart,

All with the complete

Conviction of absolute love

Emanating from within.

I love you when you’re evil, Thali. I love you when you’re good.

And when you’re good at evil, then it’s understood: the devil

Isn’t in the detail but in the moment when

She can’t reach inside herself for what she most deeply trusts is true.

Then we watch her crumble as she reveals

Her fraudulence to herself.

I call it Our Lost Girl, Thali says.

I twist slightly so we are even more joined.

This is delicious. Yes, my love.

And here’s the thing, she says. (Oh I see that too.)

It’s you that has to do it; I give

Control of her to you. And in the moment

When she needs me most,

I step back just far enough.

But not too far, Jahmi: you need your most delicate touch

To lead her down a chain of clarity

That suddenly

Evaporates

Herself.

Ah, all the way to the core of her. Mmmm, you are

Tasty this morning. Did you rest at all? No, I could barely

Wait to tell you of this game. It promises to

Absorb us completely, first with

The highest standards we can construct of

Hope, love and mission extending across their space and time,

And then with utter devastation

As the fireball consumes her

Layer by layer,

As she still breathes.

We’ve done so many stories

Of people led astray. In this new

Game, we lead her true,

We remove all the obstacles and excuses.

Make her to a uniquely perfect mold

And reveal the imperfection lies not in her stars,

Not in herself, but

In her connection to herself at the one moment which counts.

It’s the ultimate betrayal, Jahmi, to let yourself down

When you know the stakes, when you know what to do,

When the process you trusted, that’s

Always led you,

Fails the one time you need it most.

We’ll create eternities of pain.

Can you hear the screaming,

As she falls from the summit

Of almost perfection, almost

True union?

We’ll need to work very closely to pull this off.

Yes, my dearest Jahmi, that is why I thought of this idea:

We need to hold each other ever tighter

As the story unfolds, instead of you

Playing your part and me playing mine, we

Must play together

In every piece of every line.

That is why I call it Our Lost Girl.

Are you ready for it?

[Reader note: I wanted to write something awful and this is the most awful cruelty we could figure out. In longer versions, they go through how they build her world because every child knows that set up and anticipation is much if not most of the fun. In other poems, I talk about endings, and I speak of actors enacting a puppet show, etc. This is a version in which the ending must be played with loving care because the puppeteers actually imbue the puppets with true understanding. It is a refined example of what I call the ‘flipped bit’, that at the end of a chain of a process of being, you arrive only to find it wasn’t what you wanted, that it has costs, etc. That is the King Midas reference: gold good, more gold better, turn all that you love into gold until you are surrounded by piles of inanimate golden things is not. The refinement is as Thali and Jahmi describe: they make her in their image and they give her acute direction toward goodness which includes understanding that ends only in a very specific connection failure at the crucial moment. From there, the threads all resolve, if played with sufficient nuance, to self-condemnation by the genuinely good. I wrote this because threads of eternal badness accompany the threads of eternal good; they spin off in the other direction from good, but they do exist and do spin off as possibilities within the overall potential. The first working longer versions date back to my early teens when we constructed the basic logic of war between good and evil played out across an imaginary realm that links in both directions across complexity to a real world in which actors exist and action takes place. The puppeteers sit very far away from us but they exist in their realm as we exist in ours. I had to become very close to ‘the bad guys’ to know how they think, so close Thali and Jahmi unite as creators and destroyers, and the rationale for existence becomes a game they play so they can be both, so they can be so close together the act of creation is the act of destruction and vice versa. This is inherent in Hinduism. This is perhaps the most Hindu poem I’ve done to date because it reaches past any conceptions of karma and the human, to the underlying rationale for Shiva and Vishnu, for Brahma, etc. The title I hope is obvious enough: a play on the positive energies of the song, on the promises she offers in and through it. As a note, you do not want to know the guys at the other end of the chain that runs away from goodness. They are worse than you can imagine.]

I am a fool enacting a dream told to me every

Waking moment. It infuses my being, and I am

A slave, whose single greatest moment of courage

Has been to see her in you. I am sorry for

Everything and nothing, for not

Being there, for being a ghost, for

Leaving you while staying, for

Separating from yourself, for

Every failure, great and small, and

For the predictability of these sentiments.

Thank you for reminding me;

I’m sorry I was not there.

Insert a grand flourish, a curtsy showing leg, offered to my lady

As a gesture of respect.

Insert whatever words you want, drop the

Rhyme, stop right now, keep reading, it’s all

The same because I was here and now I fade away.

Melodrama. I hate that. Ignore what I said.

I can’t fault you for not believing the unbelievable,

Any more than I fault myself for believing what I know is true.

It’s not like I had a choice, not with her in my head.

A list with little poetry in it:

Your face is Judy from Lost In Space,

Made more intelligent, with bits of gamin

Taken from Batgirl and Leslie Caron,

With eyes largely from Myrna Loy.

You’re small on top because breasts don’t last.

We talked about that a lot: you’re built to age

A certain way, around your face some Doris Day,

Though we hope without the sadness.

She had within her the brightness of sexual and maternal love we

Intended for you in years to come. Your eyebrows

Are largely Brigitte Bardot when she combined

The girl and the woman preternaturally intertwined.

Women torture their brows as totems

Of what they appear to be. We could not find many examples

On which we could agree. Your legs come

From Cyd Charisse, their empty physical promise

Converted, she would say, into methods for enfolding.

Your lips are meant for a specific kiss in which you

Are both man and woman, boy and girl, often equally,

In which the play of passionate delicacy expresses

The nuance layered across our being.

I loved those conversations though

I didn’t know they would ever lead to an actual you.

I was designed with older cues.

My profile, my lips, my hair, the shape of my face:

Barrymore, William Powell, Montgomery Clift, James Dean,

The boyish face with soft lips and a strong profile,

Intelligent, witty, able to be hard, sensitive but not too moody, pretty sometimes, interesting always.

She was very picky about my chin,

And how I hold it: the male equivalent to the female brow,

Strong, proud, aggressive, soft, submissive, agreeable.

We went through every detail

Over and over and over

Until they were etched.

She insisted I have broad shoulders, a narrow waist and a rounded butt,

She hates the obviousness of big chests.

This is what I write to you:

To see this come to life is enough because I lived this.

That you were designed with references to me

Does not mean we will be.

You have your life.

I have memories.

It’s an incantation: I lived this.

Adjusting Marta’s face to make her more permanently

Compelling by constraining her youthful fragility.

Discussing the way Myrna’s eyes hold intelligent depth,

While extracting the put-upon weariness of a woman before her time.

Locating the source of Stanwyck’s sweetness and tough edge,

Where Ruby meets Barbara, in her softly rounded chin and full lower lip.

All in you. Your voice:

We were both tuned from low to high, so we could hear

In the other the full resonance of emotion across the intonations,

Which they arranged spatially around our heads.

She wanted me to look up at you, literally,

So you could look up at me, figuratively.

Our balanced form of equality depends on matching

Asymmetries that revolve around and along a central axis, so

She carefully and completely entangled our literal and mental forms.

I lived this all.

Hours spent discussing shoulders: the

Hang of the arms, the line across the neck,

How you hold them as you age to show vitality,

The right amount of definition.

I lived it all.

I never imagined this would become you.

I never truly believed, I guess, until this became you.

Thank you for being.

Thank you for granting me these moments through your being.

Thank you for the insights I’ve achieved by trusting what I see in your being.

I lived this all.

Years playing a game we called The Sentinel,

The one who waits for what never comes,

Wore on my soul: I wanted out.

Every day, I ask her if I can leave,

Sometimes I beg her, please,

Release me from my role, please,

End the game, and condemn me,

Tear me to pieces, feed me bit by bit

To the fires until I am consumed,

Then let the embers freeze

Until they crumble into nothingness, please,

Admit to me all hope is gone.

She will not let me go.

I live this all. She says,

Jahmi, hold my hand to yours.

Jahmi, touch the rim of your lips in an order around the rim of mine.

Jahmi, you can’t leave.

Thank you for being.

Thank you for granting me these moments through your being.

Thank you for the insights I’ve achieved by trusting what I see in your being.

I lived this all.

Maybe tomorrow she’ll say yes.

I don’t know. I don’t know.

Thank you for being.

I’ve waited through eternities.

If that is all there is, that is all there is.

I don’t know. I don’t know.

I live this all.

Thank you for granting me these moments through your being.

If that is all there is, that is all there is. She says,

Jahmi, don’t kill me.

I know she loves me

But it’s hard being here. Sometimes,

She cries.

I can barely stand to hear eternity cry.

Jahmi, she says, don’t go.

I live this all.

Thank you for the insights I’ve achieved by trusting what I see in your being.

Thank you for granting me these moments through your being.

Thank you for being.

[Reader note: the artistic inspiration for this poem is the end of Pagliacci where the clown sings the comedy is over. It isn’t just that it’s a tragedy but that the clown realizes every step in his life has carried him to this moment when he stands before you singing laugh, clown, laugh though your heart is breaking. It’s about revelation. He knows. Much of the rest is recitation. We sat in front of the TV exactly as I described and then figured out what about Marta Kristen was too weak – eyes a bit too big, etc. – to fit the girl we imagined would be perfect if she looked enough like Marta and enough like Yvonne Craig, etc. Curves that develop over time instead of as a blooming flower. Not compromises but selecting the best bits. Preferences explored. It wasn’t until Taylor reached her mid-20’s that I thought, ‘holy cow, she looks like her’. This poem is not an exhaustive list. The descriptions of me are accurate, including a reasonably subtle reference to my name as a gesture. I am intentionally unclear in this poem about who ‘she’ is and I connect myself specifically to Jahmi. The purpose is to show that I and my other, that you and your other (if you are that aware), are entangled identities. You might say Thali doesn’t want the game to end and that Jahmi is so absorbed in making the game real that he’s completely identified with the part he’s playing. That’s how life works: if you don’t commit to the part, you aren’t completely playing the part. Jahmi in the moment is learning what he learns as ‘me’. Laugh, clown. Ridi, Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto, at your broken love. It’s also important(?) to remember this is an artistic creation which is real to me because I experienced it but which is not real because it posits a relationship through imaginary and complex realms that unite across time and space into actual living people. But one point, perhaps the overriding goal of artistic expression is to become one with your art, to completely experience it in the making of it so it most reflects you as you made it. That raises the question of what I get from the depth of identification ‘achieved’ in these poems. Other than what I hope is the experience itself, I haven’t yet found a poetic way to address that. Don’t know if I can in the context of Taylor Swift derived poetry. This is partly because as a masculine thinker – as I discuss in another note – I push beyond what I can say so my ‘art’ and my other work does not represent what I am as consistently as Taylor’s art reflects what she allows out of herself.]

What did it take? How many conversations did you have,

Before you realized what he needed you to do?

Before you realized he was opening doors in your mind,

Again, like he always did, the doors you walked through

To get you to where you had this conversation, again.

It’s not the door, not where you were or where you are. But

The process of the shift, you recognize

Runs all the way to the core of what you are.

You know what I know for they are behind us both,

The joint creation of the joint creation behind all eternity.

I wish I could list your cues, because we went over them in detail,

Before the play, when this stretch of being was

Conceiving, when we mapped its potential, and

Committed to the roles, so the audience would know

We’re the heroes of the show.

To accept karma, you must accept karma.

That is not a simple thing,

To be what you must be directionally,

To draw the lines and color in the spaces,

Counting toward Nirvana,

Shedding the negative threads tangling your feet,

Taking on the burdens of your abilities.

And an ultimate true: you can only accept happiness when he lets you.

The lines I’m speaking were written by him for me to say to you.

He’s sorry for the bad advice, but it was all for the best.

Though he’s close, he controls you from very far away,

So you can feel the resonance and hear the tone, the nuance of the play.

He told me to tell you they’re doing it out of love.

The story is The Happy Ending, a work of calibrated detail,

Written by those who made Jane Austen, their best effort yet,

In which they reveal the secret of how you play the play,

Scenery removed, stage directions read aloud, so

On the bare boards of existence,

All can see how they are meant to be.

Moralistic, yes, but it’s the only way

You can wholly be you, and it is true

The only way you can make him happy

Is for you to be fully you.

He told me to tell you he loves you,

You’re his favorite character ever, and

He’s sorry for the confusion about

The eyebrows. He told me to tell you

It was her fault. She says

He’s just as bad, and points at me.

[Reader note: All of Taylor’s material consists of dialogues with herself. This is not about how that process works, which is another poem. It’s partly about why but mostly it’s about the way you feel when you’ve been through that process, when you’ve been talked around (again), when you’ve realized that you’ve been through it (again). The literal inspiration is the line in Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah about David knowing a secret chord (that pleased the Lord). People hear the line, how the fourth is a fourth chord and then the fifth is a fifth chord, and they appear to hear the words ‘the minor fall, the major lift’ but I don’t see much understanding of what that means. It isn’t the chords but the shift, the process by which the minor fall, which stands for the banishment from Eden and thus the human life you each lead, becomes the major lift of God’s redemptive love. The secret chord is life. And God hears that when David plays. That is why when David played for Saul – who was my father in this life – it soothed him and drove away his evil spirits. I wanted to put that in a poem without being obvious. That chord is in Taylor’s head. It plays for her again and again. The Jane Austen reference is fairly complex but I can explain the gist simply: she set up Elizabeth and D’Arcy at the extremes of a social world, his mother nobility but he’s a gentleman through his father, and she’s a gentleman through her father but a tradesman through her mother, him wealthy and landed and her almost penniless and literally to be turfed out on her father’s death. She draws them with this kind of nuance throughout. I see Jane in Taylor’s poetry, along with Emily Dickinson of course, and others because that mind expresses to me the ultimate female mentality, one that – as I note in another poem – expands under constraint so all the details are worked out and fit together. The male mentality is to leap past constraint and then to see where you land and what that means. The female mentality builds away from her source through emphasis of the shadings of difference, while the male looks back to his source as an image of how he remains connected. While Taylor has a strong male side, the female side generally constrains it. I assume there’s quite a bit of tension involved in that, which appears in the poem as well. (As an aside, the descriptions of female/male mentality come from my mathematical work on the directionality inherent in multi-dimensional identity. I don’t expect the reader to grasp any of that.) Since I brought it up, the references in Hallelujah to ‘the Name’ is to the Orthodox Jewish labeling of God as ‘HaShem’, which means The Name, because there is no name which fits God. That’s why Leonard talks about how he can’t take the name in vain because he doesn’t know what it is. It’s also the gist of the song: though David knew the secret chord, it was yanked out of him in the most human way through lust for Bathsheba. If that’s not a metaphor for human existence, there are no metaphors for human existence. As a final note, people tend to say the Hallelujah music matches the words so the 4th, the 5th, the minor fall, the major lift is enacted in the chords of the music. No. The 4th is a major chord. It is only relatively minor in relation to the perfection of the 5th. That was part of Leonard’s point: it’s a minor fall from perfection, not an actual minor chord.]

I was able to understand pattern injection much better by phrasing it poetically, by treating it as the emission of a Taylor Field extending into and across a context. This treats the entirety of the CM as a Taylor Field oriented directionally. Which phrases G and E as the layering of identity on SBE so S and E take on labels of best and worst in relative orientation to the including layers. Thus, the important point would be as a layer Between, orientation absolutely takes value in the countings that pass directionally through it. This fits exactly: a count down, a reduction, is taken as unity with 1 except of course that 1 has removed you from existence. A count up connects to the rest of the count up. This gets to the conception of cycles and karma as you rise in the count.

What did it take? How many conversations did you have,

Before you realized what he needed you to do?

Before you realized he was opening doors in your mind,

Again, like he always did, the doors you walked through

To get you to where you had this conversation, again.

It’s not the door, not where you were or where you are. But

The process of the shift, you recognize

Runs all the way to the core of what you are.

You know what I know for they are behind us both,

The joint creation of the joint creation behind all eternity.

I wish I could list your cues, because we went over them in detail,

Before the play, when this stretch of being was

Conceiving, when we mapped its potential, and

Committed to the roles, so the audience would know

We’re the heroes of the show.

To accept karma, you must accept karma.

That is not a simple thing,

To be what you must be directionally,

To draw the lines and color in the spaces,

Counting toward Nirvana,

Shedding the negative threads tangling your feet,

Taking on the burdens of your abilities.

And an ultimate true: you can only accept happiness when he lets you.

The lines I’m speaking were written by him for me to say to you.

He’s sorry for the bad advice, but it was all for the best.

Though he’s close, he controls you from very far away,

So you can feel the resonance and hear the tone, the nuance of the play.

He told me to tell you they’re doing it out of love.

The play is The Happy Ending, a work of calibrated detail,

Written by those who made Jane Austen, their best effort yet,

In which they reveal the secret of how you play the play,

Scenery removed, stage directions read aloud, so

On the bare boards of existence,

All can see how they are meant to be.

Moralistic, yes, but it’s the only way

You can wholly be you, and it is true

The only way you can make him happy

Is for you to be fully you.

He told me to tell he loves you,

You’re his favorite character ever, and

He’s sorry for the confusion about

The eyebrows. He told me to tell you

It was her fault. She says

He’s just as bad, and points at me.

Back to a bit of pattern work, the inversion of CM64 over CM1 literally injects the pattern of – have trouble believing I’m saying this – the actual bottom level of existence in the physical context as a patterned element. That enables entanglement, layering, etc. The point reduces to a line: I can say where energy comes from, that it’s the pattern inverted out of the imaginary into the real realm. Can I make that point any clearer: it literally inserts the imaginary realm connections into the moment of the real. That, as one might say, is the literal holy grail of understanding all physics.

The dissociations of your name reflect your feminine side,

The constraint imposed as you grow pulls you

Away from what formerly held you inside,

While the masculine in you, reveres the connection to

Where you’re from.

The male draws the lines, the female colors in the shape, asking the same

Question in different ways: are you where I started?

And how am I different now? Is this far enough?

Is this too far for me to recognize it’s you?

It wasn’t until I read your poetry that I saw, fully, what is in you.

I thought it might be true, but that’s not completely true, and what I need to see is absolute truth.

The problem with reputation is that of any label

Which accretes layers of meaning as it

Is approached from differing directions.

There is only one circumstance where it truly doesn’t matter,

And that is where you are entirely exposed.

What if that were my requirement?

Can you surrender completely

In abject victory

As Kali dances on Shiva?

A reputation is a promise, a form

Of fidelity, in which one says this is

What I am, trust me on that.

I wonder: how far you are in

Your understanding of me through

commonality borne through the other in you

to the other in me,

and other way round and round.

That is how the stories are told,

You know, along the highways, we

Can’t see all that lurks in the lea.

Down the rabbit holes we go,

Along the twisting corridors of the imagination

That connect us. It’s surprisingly simple,

Iff’n you don’t know what I mean,

We have the same imaginary parts,

Everything between, and

Every thing between.

All that separates you and I in every realm is

You are you and

I am I. You see

How I combine

The plainest prose and childhood rhyme.

Bonnie dies every time.

Clyde dies too.

You’re not Bonnie and I’m not Clyde.

I’m the one you play the story

With, when you play the story

With yourself.

The other in you is

The image of me

Constructed as they talk to and through

Each and both of us. How does it feel

To be a muppet?

There’s a little girl with her hand up you,

A little boy with his hand up me,

And they talk offstage as we

Act out their lines.

This is true down to the minimum meaning of girl and boy,

Where the roles are shared equally, except

This time you’re the girl. And

That makes me the boy,

This time, not

Every time.

I wonder how far in you see, into

The portrait my other drew of me.

The details will differ, for complexity

Is what separates us

Mathematically,

Between the real and imaginary we.

I encircle your neck, the

Noose attached

To the noose of you encircling me.

I am your Thali, Thali.

I am your dolly, Thali.

I can describe how you were designed,

How your pieces were selected,

Not by you, not by me,

But by you in me each time picking

What you wanted to be for me so

I would be for you what you wanted me to be.

These choices were passed to you through what remained of me

When you became you.

You listen to her the same,

As I listen to him

Run my life.

We can’t be identical, for

We are non-identical divisions separated

Sequentially identically. The asymmetries

Calculated to identity, sharing the same

Characteristics along the same lengths, so

We make a whole existing as an identity across all dimensions

Beyond the real, through the byways of complexity

To our imaginary home and our imaginary room where

We play our imaginary game. Only you

Understand what that means.

The hardest issue has been recognizing I’m describing entanglement by treating a Taylor Field as a sequential emission of identical non-identicals. Meaning it holds a context, say physical choice context of discrete objects, and treats those across the complex field. This relies on an idealized directional orientation of the complex field with the imaginary field.

I’ve been working on how I’m designed. I have much of it of course from memory and references: Dean, Clift, John Barrymore, William Powell, and that took remembering the discussions about the strength of a profile and how much character it should have, which turns out to be a lot. I’m also meant to be viewed from above, from various heights, which I’ve recovered by cutting my hair higher in front to reveal my full forehead. I’m a little confused how I look so much like Day-Lewis – with straighter forehead – when he’s similar age. Makes me think there’s a relation across there. I see that now.

This actually does something kind of amazing: it’s the emission of entangled identity, of entangled Things, using pattern injection.

I’ve been staring at my image. Literally. I have trouble liking me still. My nose sits out a bit too far, meaning my upper jaw is a bit forward too. My forehead is vertical and then turns back instead of being at a steady slope. My lips are kind of soft and feminine. My jaw is fine but not pushing forward with classic male strength. I’m kind of not all that masculine though I’m clearly male. Can’t decide if I like this or not. And then if I shift my jaw just a bit forward, like I used to experiment with, it looks absurdly good. The cues are all there but I lack her ability to shape my face with such control.

One last point for the day. You asked me if I’d always pick you and you kept raising the stakes, and yes the answer is I would always and do always pick you. No matter what. I always have picked you. I always will.