Travis Hedge Coke
There Is Nothing Left to Say On The Invisibles
4.06
The Liberty Calendar
by Travis Hedge Coke
The architecture of anxiety is such that it cannot be investigated without damage. Is that true? Does it feel true?
It is said, more often than it should be, that a bumblebee cannot fly under the regulations of mechanical science. Physics, herself, rejects the bumblebee’s flight, and a bumblebee’s fly indicates our ability, or our chance to also flout physics’ control.
Physics has no problem with the flight of the bumblebee and not only because physics is an unthinking, unaware branch of science, not a person or personification.
Did I reaffirm the architectural physics or weaken the architecture of the magic bumblebee?
They say causality and correlation are unconnected, but we connect them.
We make our own calendars, each of us, and we calculate our own odds and set our alarms and timers. Every one of us is the architect of their own clock.
Carry your home in your hand. Your hat hangs where you home. Your workshop is where you work.
Working from within spacetime, forward in time, luck appears to appear.
In An Actor Prepares, ElFayed says, “To pretend to light a fire, pretended matches are sufficient.”
Working outside spacetime, everything might seem interlocked and interlocutory, as tight as manufactured rhetoric. Intricate woodworks fitted together.
Working magically in spacetime, is directing luck as an engineering principle. Or, acknowledging luck as a systemic occurrence.
So, too, science. Especially the sweet science and other sport.
The flit of the bumblebee is luck in that it is a set of interworking elements. Collusion to success is always happy accident, and every happy accident is, in a conscious universe, directed.
Directing and controlling can be similar, but are not the same.
The k in magick can stand for an addition or application of thermodynamics, for that silver-white miracle, potassium. Work. Effort. ? ? ?. Magic with one thousand. Magic and kali. Krypton. Argon. Lead. Iridium. Invisible to silver.
Glass from succulents. Gasses. Metals. Two noble glasses in a lit glass. Adam and Eve from a frying. In an old rustic hall, the questioned bumblebee.
Any bumblebee can crash. Invisible to silver. Any bumblebee can crash.
Gordon Lightfoot had many of the details of the Edmund Fitzgerald sinking wrong. Still, the ship sank.
Calendars attract a different kind of modeler, a special kind of architect. Almost all yearly calendars have some flux built in. The twelve-month with a blue moon thirteenth. Leap years. Four season. Five season. JRR Tolkien’s Middle Earth runs on a twelve-month calendar of seven-day weeks, with a handful of holidays for wiggle.
As pre-birth, post-death, life can be assumed a system to control or illustrate time.
Argon provides more warmth, inflating a diver’s drysuit, as the explorers knew when they took the gas in vials to look for the submerged Edmund Fitzgerald.
The Great Lakes, into one of which went the Fitzgerald, carry the silt and memory of iridium. In another light, the basin runs pink with blood and gold with sand.
Like too many gnostics, we often overemphasize space. Compared to time, space occupies so many of our territorial and social concerns. Time can become a physical estimation. We may worry not only of sitting where someone else is sitting, but sitting too soon after where someone has been sitting. Time becomes a Rube Goldberg gag, which is really, what calendars are. Trapping time into a spatial illustration.
Ananke working her spindle of necessity. Vanna waiting for the wheel of fortune to be turned. Iridium from space, carried silvery by rock and kinesis and full void.
The old trail. Meteoric. The leafless stalk of flowering life and post-life life. The anglophone habit of the twelve month year, the twelve-hour clock, belie our awareness that both are flawed plans, inaccurate projections. They are fuzzy, in part, because the base count is off. Part, it is habit.
Adding days in the middle of the calendar. Cutting tethers of string to the middle of a line.
If an anchor is light enough, it will go to the end of the line. If the anchor weighs enough, it will bring the line down, and any boat with it.
Alethia is a kindness. Anxiety, too. Anxious peace.
Anxiety of architecture. We all fall. Folderol.
*******
Nothing in There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles) is guaranteed factually correct, in part or in toto, nor aroused or recommended as ethically or metaphysically sound, and the same is true of the following recommendations we hope will nonetheless be illuminating to you, our most discriminating audience.
Represent and Destroy: Rationalizing Violence in the New Racial Capitalism. Melamed, Jodi. 2011. University of Minnesota Press.
Golden Gulag: Prisons, Surplus, Crisis and Opposition in Globalizing California. Wilson, Ruth. 2007. University of California Press.
Gothic for Girls: Misty and British Comics. Round, Julia. 2019. University Press of Mississippi.
