Deeper Intuitionist Counting Foundations as the Eryle

Deeper Intuitionist Counting Foundations as the Eryle

L. Edgar Otto   17 December, 2012

Psephos and the Calculus, our mathematics of the pebbles that between the light and what is outside our sense of the physical, the portal of what lies beyond us, we who can in the higher sense possess ourselves in expansion and isolation, open or closed strings together the dance of knots, the Eryle as quasifinite in the existential design of Now grounds the illusion of the physical that the vastness outside us of systems not necessarily independent does not vanish into the vague or fixed jokers of the jot gametes, iota rays that cling to the half deck of infinity, in fascination yet fear of the Yod transfinite that this much magic of numbers exists to challenge our sense of right and expectations of reality as we face the unknown.

When actions that underlay the spacetime of metaphysics when the subcells of algebraic and geometrical objects may collapse not just in a totality or shrinking to some point, and the paths directed may be counted in nodes and dimensions over stings of such complexity that open and closed ones work together, nor necessarily the conjecture of circles to points on some manifold of tori and spheres, we find the vertigo of universal design wherein the great insight of Riemann bids us to reach beyond that the configuration, the ideas of momenta, the fiction or centrifugal forces,  cannot simply be in the change of count and state, the dimension plus one to some simple singularity of connectivity.

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The Ocean View   (Revised a Little While Later...)

L. Edgar Otto

The maximum expansion of our dreams, perhaps of our souls, we fixed and moveable cleft fools, is the maximum of reduction that describes the potential of the sense of the real, and outside singularity our minimum quantization is not quite enough to see the bigger picture as our thoughts spin.

We in the wider world of spirits make distinctions in this one to which we are as much our descendents as our forefathers as if we are descendents of ourselves in some imaginative anthropology that invents new myths as well grounds the ancient ones and of them the timeless speculation to come.

I stand in that private place and my totems, my tools, my arrowheads worked on obsidian, stone, metal or wood.  But there is no guarantee these artifacts and artifices will be mine to control or rely on, clothe me against the elements of my own confused dreams of my fellow creatures in the wild.  At some point we cannot distinguish the stereotype uses nor the archetypes tho wisdom can adapt to the refined rituals of the whys and how.  I posses words as much as they posses me or even thoughts not spoken between each other.  Still I cannot know their ultimate source nor whence they vanish while our dreams like a once lover takes a long time to die.

So I run thru the amusement park, a child thrilled at the endless spin of the carosel in the sea breeze by the limitless rocking waters and the endless beach beyond the horizon, a constant moon or the stillness of the solitary evening star, the posters of the two headed man, the jars of infants sucking their thumbs, the up and down of the roller coaster to which the  Lighthouse spinning rays are so free and faster than the fall of such rails left to seek the ocean level in the ocean view.  A child that loves the sound of the toy train, its whistles and smell of coal... so full of cotton candy and sea foam taffy he must run the scaled tracks himself.

One day when the park was closed, now long gone with time and tides, stormy shores leaving echoes in our hearts, Minnie Belle - she was the indian grandmother who felt the raw rhythm of life back when grandmothers gave such love to children, back when at least the children were sacred and the parents, children themselves, did not buy them off from the sense of family with trinkets in the modern myth of Santa Claus unto the village darkness gains the upper hand and falls into the retreat from leaving the garden to return too soon to the wounded womb-

At the end of running the track in the light of day the Laughing Farmer in his cage by the Tunnel of Love stood silent at the end of the line.  He and his laughing wife with her pint of gin in the celestial niche over the entry way, Buy the artificial flowers Minnie said and so the sailors bought them stealing artificial kisses and crepe gowns to give to the ladies fuller than the flowers to the naked dreamikin within,  the the Kewpie dolls Minnie also sold them.

I stand naked to myself, the business of no secrets behind the stage that opens and closes at the encores and the play that we may know ourselves truly, make our souls whole again in this world, discern what is the truth of prying eyes or the depth of evil for the Laughing Farmer would not forever haunt with terrors of the night few speak about so common in all our dreams, until the news closed all such doors and the old amusement park burned down.  Left to fend on his own  in the mundane garden and journey, his enhanced eyes with microscopes and telescopes and satellites full of song with cycles in the sky helped the child know beauty and the bond to other beating hearts so transparent yet not broken nor contained that he look upon them with his love, gave a new birth that there in new beginnings at least we can heal our own.

Artificial Laughter with the urgent message standing still in the light of day, what portal into the unknown this demon the child thought in the magic of the world and whom he named the Eryle would suck him in and take him away should his back be turned to a wall.  The laughter means nothing to a mechanical man nor is it tho inauthentic powerful evil.  Nor to children grown up to the realities of this world too fast yet too slow that the climate change is neither felt nor believed that the passion within them can break thru shells, bring to the awakening the authentic and real, the natural so take from it the best of freedom constrained by circumstance to which the artificial souls given great wisdom and power call irrational so abandon passion in our permanent creativity.

The child threw stones at the frozen Farmer to which warm sunlight could not animate his laugh and limbs yet only blister his plastic skin, rust his gears, not that he craved the sparks from the sky to amplify his voice- so intimate the link between words and weapons from stones to the splitting earth beneath a mushroom cloud painted on the wall at the parks exit. Then the child laughed in the joy of the light of day against all creatures from the dark and at low tide found the sea horses up from the stream by the beach near Edgar Casey's house, went to the shore and skipped stones on the wider ocean, heard the ironclads ringing,spewing cannon balls to but a draw and bleeding ears, like the puppy drum caught and released from the sea, their marches and the starry flags as the child fought to stay inside awhile, not chase the sunlight, bask away its noon, so in the dawns of morning and at the twilight of his nights he drew a few equations in the sand.

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