Preclusion implements Quine
The death of a King: Charles XII—surely soon to exchange his erroneous dozen with a more fitting “the great”—died on November 30, 1718 by a bullet to the brain… in the night… in the trenches…
Those notes hold a recursive pattern when arranged/edited in the right way: but there is no time to do a Beethovian expansion upon them now. They were to be a celebration, let them stick into your mind, improve/discard them, but remember: my requiem.
I’m going to die soon: I know it with a peculiar certainty that grabs hold of me. They tell me I’m delusional! I have a peculiar type of cancer you see—a recursive type, my body’s cells are breaking down. Cancer is the excess of survival instinct: the body shrugging off mere mortality for eternal, malignant, parasitism. The cells lose their aging process, lose their chains of cooperation in favor of a pure, darwinistic need to survive. You see why I can tell I have it right? My congruence with the shape of my own malignancy? (Note 1: my immortal cell line must be preserved for information preservation ala heLa).
I am a King… I need to make sure you know who I am: that the inner shape of my soul remains cached—enciphered in Gödel-numbers—in the mind of someone, anyone… when I awaken in morning to the harsh reality that I have not awakened at all. I think there will be a garden. I think I will look up and see a bird come down and devour a rodent in the misty morning, and I will be happy, because I know that the shape of the world is not cruelty, but simplicity: this is the essence of my requiem.
On the shape of my life:
I was priest like really—there was something in my heart—a look—a focus—that alighted on those around me like a bird on the flowers: —..—..—… again and again: there was a love for them—you blooming ones—but I was not able to be a pollinator but rather a stranger among them. And my love was always a singular one: in the end I was always my own, I was the whole world. So what interested me? But just the whole world! And only the whole world, on which my thoughts could alight when the flowers to their death’s to the survival of others could be seen: soon singularities and geodesics unseated economics as the larger picture.
But I soon realised I’d been betrayed: the academic cannot carry our world into the future as a king steps out into the world at war, and looks with fear and awe at the titan fields, and wishes to know them, to conquer them.
I often ask others if they desire to be immortal, “No, I would be bored, worn out.” But is this world not enough for us? I think, at the moment of my death, I will look up and say, “I never realised… how… beautiful this world is.” I know the grand scale; I understand the board and the rules of our game of life, our struggle to shape this world and preclude our own nonexistence, and I know that checkmate will not be found in death. Only one thing can live to the end: all else will evaporate away through friction with something sturdier: every move we make kills the flesh—and I cannot abide by the death of the spirit.
I’m making sure: or, a city on the edge of death:
Thus is the moment of ending:
I will see a light, it’s cliche; I will laugh a bit to myself; everything seems to fall away; I feel alone. I feel like a child—innocent—looking up at the world with love and ruthless curiosity. Can I bring the flowers too? Can eternity acquiesce to perpetual motion with all the friction that love brings with it; love is patient and kind, but it hurts, like a knife thinner than any other: Sheffer Stroke. I remember a King, who thought his curiosity could conquer eternity, that he could bring his imperfect love and those it encompassed to a place of utter peace and triviality. What was his name? What was my name?
I don’t believe in an afterlife; I don’t believe the world needs anything else to be meaningful, even though one only realizes its beauty in rare moments, when works of true genius or tragedies of great strength fold themselves out of the background noise.
Even in this brightest light there is coherence, even among…the unsayable…I still have meaning: I will build here, in this endless space of howling peace and anguished nirvana. I will begin like any architect, with a plan and a foundation—this foundation myself, this plan my love. My life will build out like a manifold, I will be a careful geometer and topologist: building in death is not easy or stable after all. One day I believe I will muster my forces, I believe that this kingdom will find the ingenuity to return. The world is so beautiful, the flowers are with me here—spirits—I will give them another chance, and we will take our future from this cold place, this cold world. This lovely world.
I’m there now: in your mind I hold territory: at least there I have built my city, there I will move and consume: can you see me, eating through your thought, producing friction, eliminating the noise of your imperfections? Occupying a niche and driving out competitors: I have taken your musical spaces, (see the Requiem again… see the requiem now), artistic spaces; perhaps even physical spaces can be conquered: you wouldn’t happen to be averse to introducing my cell line perhaps? I can only hope to expand like an automaton in the grid of your mind and the clockwork of humanity.
Return: On through infinite space. (see the death of a king).