Is Space, Stuff and Motion, are Changes, Things and Happenings written by and moved by Math? Or is Math the Magic we make up to describe the things that tend to go on happening whether we get to the bottom of them or not? Are expressions dry and cold explanations, bound by reason - or were reason and objectivity created so man would not fall in love with math, with explanation.

I didn't know.

So I wrote you in Math.

And I found that the wisest of us learn to love without hoping to learn to understand.

While the rest of us fight the haze of our contentment to see if we can get our hands behind the curtain and feel our death in utter lustful comprehension.

I spoke of constance and of like fractions and of complimentary angles. I said our paths were plotted. We intersect. We are both irrational. I found our SINs and where they pointed. I described. I derived. I tried to balance the equation.

I didn't.

So I wrote you in Music.

Soaring and Bombastic with tempering variation both light and sad, but most of all I reveled in the only language with so many voices working at once, springing into life and dying. And my letter was not linear, but irregular. I let my conflicting thoughts play together, pushing thought on the rising and falling backs of ringing surf; braiding and breaking, building collapse at once with rising action.
I tried to bleed your jagged pieces into water.
I couldn't.

So I wrote you in Pictures.

Building with bigger pieces, the moments that hang together with hollows in between. There were only two pieces in the story, holding every sensory byte in unavoidable totality. Every one of your moments were so alive that you found a greater view than the look you took when you were living. With every drop of paint your every thought stood stark and frozen. An era, a lifetime, not just a portrait. It was the whole truth, unexplained and standing for immediate consumption.

Then I wrote you in Words.

Because not only is there no need for them to add up, it seems impossible to trick them into it at all. There is no right answer, only stupid questions. Our words are the most preposterous suggestions, wrong answers left alone without correction.

Words - where effect comes greater when all the written rules are broken; where every sight and sound etc. is invented the moment it is needed.

So I was able to create not only the pieces of your SELF, but each component part that built the pieces, and ever separate cell that spun a part. Words were smaller than brushstrokes, notes or numbers. With made up thread, I spun you into being;

a wiggling picture of concept, existing between the feeling senses and

I knew something I couldn't see.
And so you came to be.

Hypothesis - Experiment - Conclusion.
Exposition - Development - Recapitulation.
From Sight to Sketch to Canvas.
Idea - explanation - application.
I proved you. I demonstrated you. I captured and composed you.

But you were already written.
And I can only plot the world around you to find your outline.
I can only map the light and how it Hits you.

It's as if Physics, Sound and Life have tried to tell me not to try.
Enough!
Rest your hands!
What is IS!

And I, for all my life, will work to work out how and why.

He has a white beanie pulled down to his sunglasses. He's in his forties, smiling and glancing around in the quiet bar. They do this a lot, this kind of guy. He's excited to be in a bar mid-day, and he wants to find someone on the same page. Most people are not excited, most people make an excuse. They explain their need to dip into the vice. Bad day. Angry wife. They want it understood.

Not our guy.

Our guy orders a rum and coke and goes for his phone and wallet. He produces them from the purple Crown Royal bag he carried in with him.

Crown Royal whiskey is sold in faux-velvet bags; primarily to assure with faux-class that they don't consider themselves or their drinkers classy. It's a favorite for white male college grads; who don't want to stop drinking even though they're moving through their twenties at the same alarming pace at which they're parents call them to ask if they're working full time yet.

They're not, but they're among the top tippers, so I hope they stay nearly thirty forever.

Back to our guy. The Crownbagger.

God bless a man who doesn't want to wonder what people think of him. Don't guess, he says, smiling and assured in his careful marketing campaign. No need to wonder about me; I'm in a bar at 2pm. I keep myself in a whiskey bag, but at least it's got goldfucking tassels. There's something deeply assured about this man, as he sits smiling into his cocktail. Whoever he is, he is so happy to be that and only that person that he needs me to be sure.

You won't like me, but I do.

He might be smarter than me.

He sits next to a guy spinning his wedding ring around his glass of white wine. It jumps the bar lip and hits the floor ringing.

"Lose that," laughs the Crownbagger, "and you'll be in trouble."

He laughs.

Mr. Wedding ring laughs too, but without vigor. While possibly absent minded, he blushes away his membership at the bar. His laugh is so guilty it hangs in the air, a hasty shamed apology to his wife. Dropping the ring was bad enough, but the camaraderie offered by Crownbagger was too much. Mr. Wedding ring looks around in worry, eager to prove to someone that the two men were different.

To Crownbagger, it was just barbonding.

It was interesting to see how their drinks softened the exchange. They didn't notice how differently they saw the moment. The clues were there, but sipped invisibility sat on both of them, thick and grinning.

They were still thinking, but their borders had crept in. Now, so close it was sticking to their skin, their vision of the universe had receded to happy seclusion;

broken by a ring.

They watch the game; mostly silent until Mr. Wedding Ring pays and leaves without finishing his glass.