Chapter 8
Numbers Through the Graph Hole
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| 2 husbands and the graph hole |
(The Two Husbands continue their observations of the graph)
BIGGY
The numbers simply lose their grid -
their grid place - their graph square.
Loose black lines waver
and fall away.
Heavily inked Numbers
float up;
they move toward
a centrifugal source hole -
a vacuum liberating lineal hole.
SMALLY
They move toward the lines that suck them in
down a hole!
A sort of square place
that has breath
sucking straight down
into our wall.
BIGGY
Look - the numbers can tumble
or they stay straight up.
SMALLY
They have the sense of marching,
then diminishing,
down the black hole.
BIGGY
Our numbers - first enclosed;
then set to each
simply reduce
into the perfectly compacting lines
to nothing - not even a zero
but underneath or beyond one, if possible!
Can we go there?
SMALLY
Absolutely not.
BIGGY
This reduction scares me.
SMALLY
The numbers progress on the charts
is diminished.
They’re entering a category
of serene extinction.
They’ll fall off into the eternally solvent
black gas.
BIGGY
How did we start that?
SMALLY
They’ve been pushing toward it
all along;
sure to combine, surrogate,
and dissolve - freak out - be subsumed
into the special black
creator pile.
BIGGY
Where?
SMALLY pauses,
That’s escaped me!
But we see it happening
here in our workshop.
BIGGY
Right on the wall.
It’s going there!
We didn’t plan it this way.
SMALLY
I know. It just appeared!
BIGGY watching the numbers move,
Receding, diminishing -
smaller and smaller,
reducing into black gloo;
black goo caught in the pocket in the wall.
And passing through this -
not turning into numbering angels
or un-numbered angels...
Just worrisome in the toil, the boil,
the glue pitch of black!
SMALLY
There they go!
Our numbers that we’ve set up
don’t change.
They don’t change as they go through it -
through the graph pitch -
the dark rectangular hole
pressing in, spreading,
turning all numbers to glue pitch
like tar.
BIGGY
Like jam.
SMALLY
Like jam for tortes.
BIGGY
Like the heavily counted on jam
for tortes.
SMALLY
And the heavenly counted upon jam
behind the stars and universal things.
BIGGY
Encounteredly, numbers.
SMALLY
That spread filling in behind.
There, where all the dark numbers go!
BIGGY
And we’re not pushing them in.
SMALLY
No, they’re self-realizing and going
in on their own.
They’re following up on going out
along the way,
hosted and held in the grid pattern;
substituted there, standing up
and entering in upon a reduction.
BIGGY
Shorter, shorter - squished together
within themselves to dots - dots only,
that we can see or not see at all.
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| two husbands and graph hole |
SMALLY
Disappeared, merged
in a glue-mass black.
Through a square or a rectangle
they are absorbed and consumed.
BIGGY
Boldly, they are all merging together.
‘Somewhere’ we think.
SMALLY
The grid pattern points in
and contracts evenly and proportionately.
BIGGY
Yes, the horizon line comes here
to swallow all our graphing totals up.
SMALLY
The dot in the center
comes forward on our wall
and sucks in every
gridlocked square,
squeezing
and reducing
all sharp corners to mush, to glue.
There, there’s the soup!
And all our numbers contained in it...
BIGGY
And we’re not getting anything...
Or going toward that!
SMALLY
We’re pausing there in a
square on a grid line tall;
as if we’re part of a move in a game;
but the outcome is already fixed.
BIGGY
All our created numbers are moving;
but not like us.
They’re descending in size into a
nothingness
that’s taking over the wall over there -
our grid.
SMALLY
That’s a labyrinth.
BIGGY
That’s a disappearing function
down into toil and trouble
where all numbers go -
the broth
out there!
(He gestures wildly toward space)
Note To Readers: While the Two Husbands are observing the movements of their graph on the wall, the Two Wives are in Mexico pouring Don Pedro rum down the hole at the top of the Women’s Club mountain! The Ladies of the Women’s Club will soon be leaving the mountain like ants in a frenzy.
(End of Chapter 8)
this is wonderful...perhaps a most favorite!
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