Thursday, August 6, 2009

My Work is Done from a post today linked to a blogger I follow. A conference on mathematical physics.
(some social implications of mathematical physics, my poem on )

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My Work is Done L. Edgar Otto Aug. 6, 2009

I think I know what you are asking me and why you ask it.
but there is no sure guidance in all the wisdom's

When it comes at least to how humans bond

At the origin, singularity, singular paths
Of chance and necessity and the shells and walls of time.

As the best of teachers are surpassed by their students
or squabs, first galaxies, are taught to take their risks to fly

Or that they resent the breaking banquette for their autonomy

My work was done and the world's work, its making of
Our nests of learning love together, debris and tidal surge

Drawn by tears our programmed faith of gentle caring
beyond the rewards, prestige, control of self-with-others
We cannot save even one, ourselves, let alone everyone

Yet I watch you free of me seeking the wild and finding home.

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The Burr Head Universe
Footnote to what was on my mind just before the above poem:

More than asking when things begin or end and compare the paradoxes of
stages of our lives and of our generations- we should look more to question the paradoxes of some source or origin where things seem ultimate or different everywhere things change yet are the same. The loom of years cannot be felt or seen until the days have done their weaving. Nothing of the mistakes of the past needs color your own futures and yet in spiritual bonds some things we cannot escape even over time. This poem comes after a small idea of mathematical physics as if we do indeed gain the whole world but cannot locate our center and soul- but as all our spheres interact in shells of expansion, duplication, attracting and in repulsion, centers may correspond as if a dream and not embodied on what is a sea of ghostly spheres anyway to that center, origin which seems to forever be a way into descent and yet abstractly is a very focused limit. The math then, so far, is a loose mechanism of fields and matter and points and lines as if zeros and infinity by analogies- but the description is not understood exactly.

A particular small point flat and in a sea of distinguishable shells does not "know: which "shell" it is in. Is not spatial expansion implied by this as galaxies were more compact in the past and even more their components contain an overall energy than distant objects?
As the world transfer energy in structures is it any different the way the shapes of things like spirals and trees do it? But the bleak picture of fading sparks of light in the growing immensity of space is a small part of the picture in awe of some idea of randomness and a rather depressing picture at that if time itself were not so far from the collapsing of worlds.

I did not write your life script and you used so much of my blood and ink- still, where you create a fictional character, you the author, the best of novels is one where the characters though unreal take on a life of their own. Our real life character sometimes the worst of our own self-deceptions. Love in the main endures and is not lost, is conserved in the immensity. What we write on this earth, it matters not the loss of ink or runes in stones as much as we write with more than our own blood- thus you all ask me too of your origins. Your stars of love need not fail as have so many before you nor do you need to think on this as you entangle your tears and joy in confluence together. I only pray that I have not harmed you even if unknowingly- but we do stumble over each other in each others dreams.

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