Ars Magna for Manifold Dimensions of z

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If a boy is no longer z, or is negative z, then what is he?

To heck with z and your negativity but if you really want to know, beg.

I am, you see? I’m on my knees.

Well, then, let’s begin. If the boy is no longer z or is negative z then he is a critter de profundis. By this I mean, well, I’m not sure, but he is definitely no longer a boy of this domain space where he was once beaten into a holier-than-thou manifold, sanctified, classified, pick-pocketed, pistol-whipped, stereotyped and possibly punched choirboy.

And then?

And then, when they were done with him he was made invisible to radioscopy where all objects in or on the body, such as the cross tattooed on his right arm (and plunked on his grave) and his heart (tattooed on his chest), are destroyed by weathering or landscaping or both.

By they, you mean, who?

Those with pistols and whips.

I’m still not clear about the whips but I get the sense the boy is a modern-day Gilgamesh?

He is not unlike a triptych or an epic sub-text.

If the heart and the cross are removed, or weathered as you say, over time, then what is left?

An ancestor and a gravitational field, which is like a cosmic macramas, all knotted up but with nowhere to go. In other words, he is like two scoops of your favorite cereal.

Lucky Charms.

I suppose.

But I really don’t get you—

Neither do I but you can read lips.

Come close.

You see a boy is a patchwork (See: macramas) of basic strings wound up tight to create a new kind of space, a face, arms and legs. He is a kind of theoretical algebra but with his own nutty Decalogue, an exquisite corpse with a severe case of macropsia.

I don’t get you, ever, you big Pooh!

Is it time for supper, let’s eat. My belly aches for ham.

Are you hungry?

Yes, but a kiss would suffice.

Where do secrets come from?

Kisses and Socrates, I guess, ha-ha, no-no. Secrets, and probably Socrates, originated from a closed interior, i.e. in utero.

In the womb?

Or bomb, or a cul-de-sac void of unbearable frictions, i.e. the womb, not bomb.

Why French?

Help me untie my sneakers, I need a hand.

What’s your thinking process, my friend?

Knots and knits.

You are not a horse, my friend.

Some will call it a “grieving” or a “lamenting,” but this is reckless, I prefer shopping instead. When shoelaces are tied (imagine a long shot of this) it takes on a particular significance when all you see are the shoes being tied by almost middle-aged hands.

What the heck are middle-aged hands?

A wicked gnarl of fat cuneiforms.

What happens when you squint?

I get the impression of aliens.

Extraterrestrials?

Yep, you bet.

I found this quote on your bureau—“In 3-space (height, width and depth) two half planes meet at an angle a (alpha) along a cosmic string.”   What does this mean?

To hell with quotes, my boy. I’m tired of poppycock.

To hell with you instead.

Ok, listen.

I am.

Imagine—

That word is so cliched.

Listen.

Ok.

One boy (z) is lost forever to a river while another boy (let’s call him negative z) is lost to another river.

Ok?

Where these rivers intersect (simultaneously in imaginary space and real space) you wind-up with a mini bang, a kind of 3-dimensial kiss between the real and the imaginary boy.

No sense.

Nonsense. Imagine these two boys are not the same but they are identical in nature and equal to one another in stature but only in death.

This is what it means to be in 3-space when your time is up? The boy is dead, has drowned in some fashion? The boy z and the boy negative z are the same, but exist in alternate universes?

Multiverses in fact. Do you believe in magic, my boy? Superheroes? Friends?

I ask the questions here. Say it in plain English.

This is mathematics and myth, not gibberish.

What is mythology to you, my friend?

A constant fishing, a flick of the wrist, the cosmic string.

Eh—what?

(z) is the one who can travel his entire life without the safety of seatbelts and (negative z) is the deformed, misshapen haphazard choirboy involved with pistols and whips. Do I have to spell it out in plain English?

Yes.

He is the result of Zoroastrianism, an ancient battle between pistols and whips.

I still don’t understand.

Zygotes and spaceships.

What—. In the end, so that they may understand, what is Æ’ (z) = 1/2?

f is the magical effects left by stars moving through time. (z) was the time we moved through stars. What remains equals half of the gravitational attraction left by all objects in a room at a particular point in time even after those objects in the room no longer exist.

Like the impression we leave on grass after a picnic?

Sounds loco but I’d say neither. It’s the ratio of the distance between the grass and the grass before it was flattened.

And the boy?

He is so much like you.

In what way?

Had a fetish for spelling and trinkets—

And sneakers and secrets.

I would have offered you a flotation device if I had the wits.

They were too big for my arms. “You cannot swim the length of the Euphrates in one breath,” you said.

“I can,” you said.

I did. I did.

And now do you understand?

Only that we meet again in this unholy place confessing our secrets to the Euphrates. We swim toward one another in perilous synchronicity, fat black tadpoles in full regalia, i.e. nada-at-all.

Between you and me I hope they will understand.

Clandestine trips and mathematical b.s.?

I won’t hold my breath.

Do you ever think about me?

Like never before.

The Elegant Universe

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Joey said he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t keep anything solid down but I insisted and he said okay and so he decided upon mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, and two pieces of extra crispy from KFC. I paid in cash. He couldn’t walk or stand to drive so I brought our last meal together to his home instead. I watched him eat, peed then left.

You begin to imagine you have something you can’t get rid of and you tell yourself, your friends and your family, I’m fine. But you’re not. Don’t be silly, you say. Even if what you have is only in your head, it’s not OK, this irrational fear. You close your eyes and project. You can’t sleep and when you do you dream of penises. The penises poke fun at you with their smiley faces as they glide eagerly across your chest like gigantic sperm or comets.

Your home is the surface of a pink balloon. It pops. Deflates. Shrivels up. Your universe is now flaccid. A fetus tied to a string.

*

The Quantum Paradox states that general relativity and quantum field theory are incompatible. Many theoretical physicists (physicists who really exist, not in theory) are convinced that Superstring Theory will provide the answers to this paradox, i.e. the answers to everything.

Superstrings are subatomic strings that thread the universe together like a cosmic macramas. But you can’t see them. Just know they’re out there.

Supersymmetry (also known as SUSY) is the major prediction of Superstring Theory. If correct, it implies that every known elementary particle must have a super partner, which is kind of like a guardian angel or, if you’re irreligious, a superhero, like Wonder Woman or Fred Astaire. For example, the partners of quarks are called “squarks.” The partners of electrons are called “selectrons.” The partners of gluons are called “gluinos” and so forth. So, then, you may wonder, what is the partner of a super partner called? A Spartner perhaps.

In addition, no pair of the known particles are Supersymmetry partners of one another. So Supersymmetry therefore requires the existence of a new elementary particle (The Unique Particle) for every known elementary one. As often happens, the names of these particles are somewhat whimsical and quirky, like Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Joey.

*

We’re really not quite sure and for reasons I won’t go into right now that Joey was determined to kill himself. This by no means mean that we are knowledgeable of the last acts of the dead, but once you have a theory containing gravitation and generalizing general relativity, or Superstring Unification Theory, then you begin to realize that the geometry of space-time is dynamically determined.

Determined:   Resolute.   Staunch.   Unwavering.

Once you know everything is determined you run out of space-time and words begin to lose their meaning.

*

During the Inflationary Universe the distribution of matter in the early history of the real universe is known to have been extremely uniform. As inflation proceeded, the matter that was present at the beginning of time would be diluted to irrelevance, while space became filled with the exquisitely uniform mass density of the false vacuum.

(But, the question remains: How can the real universe exist within a false vacuum?)

Entropy: The hypothetical tendency for the [real] universe to attain a state of maximum homogeneity, like Middle America. Or a doctrine of inevitable social decline, such as the [vacuum of the] Holy Roman Empire.

Matter—physical or corporeal—whether solid (JOEY), liquid (sperm), or gaseous (memories), especially as distinguished from incorporeal substance, such as spirit or mind (memories), or from qualities, actions, like death by suicidal comet or something that occupies space, like Max.

Just before the turn of the century, Max Planck realized that if energy is emitted in discrete

packets (or quanta) rather than in a continuous distribution, the total energy output would be

finite.

Finite. Finite. Finite.

*

A Mohole, after what I’d discovered, is like a black hole bored through the Earth’s crust.

Nothing makes sense. Only the black circles under the eyes.

Halloween: You think Halloween will be OK but you fall asleep because you’re tired and you know Halloween will never be the same without symmetry. You dream you bloat. You feel fat because over time the distribution of matter in your gut doesn’t dilute but accumulates and spreads out while the space around you becomes filled with elementary particles. You laugh. You smile. You fuck. But you’re in a false vacuum, void of SUSY.

SUSY: JOEY

The Elegant Universe: You inflate the balloon (home) with helium (memories) until the outer surface becomes exquisitely uniform. Then, you find a string and tie a single knot around its neck then wrap the string around your finger. Let the balloon dangle above your head like a balloon. Watch it defy gravity as it tugs on your finger and yearns for space. Ponder the meaning and/or significance of SUSY.   Recite the names of the known stars in the universe. Close your eyes then squeeze the balloon until it bursts and its energy is released, finitely, in discrete packets of quanta.