I wish I had something to say before sharing the image and text of today's blog post, so that I could add some words in italics between the title and the...
Dear diary,
It’s mid-April. What does that mean? Well, specifically stated in the contract that was signed between God and humankind at the end of the seventeenth century, mid-April is supposed to offer us a landscape of green grass, with a section of sweet pea flowers, and exactly one lamb. But what do we have, this year? I will tell you. In Minnesota, on this night in 2019, I am unable to sleep because I hear wind like a loud train blasting around outside; and if you look at our yard, it is not green, and there are no sweet peas: there’s only thick white snow, engulfing our universe — the poor lamb is frozen.
But I don’t mind having winter continue perpetually. It doesn’t bother me to know that I’ll never see spring or summer again. It’s a good excuse to put the snow-tires back on our car.
I also love shoveling. I got to shovel the path outside our front door yestreen, because the storm had started in the afternoon and there was already snow everywhere. This new neighborhood is so quiet: it makes me feel wistful to shovel snow at night. I could be on the surface of Mars, or on the Moon — it’s dead silent here, & no living creatures have ever been seen.
I haven’t espied a single person yet, in this town where I live. There are automobiles in the driveways, so I assume that people occupy the houses; and the paths in front of the entryways all get shoveled, but I’ve not yet seen anybody step outside. That’s another good thing about endless winter: it makes us into hibernating bears. (I wonder what everybody’s dreaming about.)
But while I was installing some floor planks in my hallway, I heard, coming from the street outside our window, a beautiful voice — high, clear, & feminine — singing a simple, lovely, French song. I stepped over to the glass, to see if I could spot the singer, half expecting it to be a ghost or a phantom (the sound was too innocent to be earthly), but instead of a semi-transparent damsel floating on the air and faintly glowing, there was a teenage schoolgirl walking along the curbside; and she was wearing a backpack. So this marks the first time I’ve ever seen a human hereabouts.
*
The only other news that I have to report is that our local scientists finally managed to photograph a black hole. Or so they claim. (I don’t doubt them; it just seems more accurate to state this as an allegation than as a fact, since, from what I understand, black holes are supposed to eat up light beams, and photographs supposedly capture light beams; so how can you capture something that’s already been eaten? You can’t have your cake and see it too: That’s why most of us spend our birthdays sulking in gloominess, and we’re almost always drunk.)
[Wow, seriously, the strong winds just sent something thudding against the side of our house — right at the back of my head, I distinctly felt it — this storm is really playful!]
Anyway, the black-hole photo was on my mind cuz Ryan Baldwin just posted a link to it on the Twitter network, with the comment: “All this hype and I find myself slightly disappointed.” I share this quote because I agree with it. Science is a letdown. Think about it: When was science last cool? My answer is: Back when it invented the vaccine for polio; and when it invented the U-bend which eventually became the P-trap in plumbing; and of course katydids; also the Big Bang was pretty neat, during the first few moments; plus dry ice, alien spaceships, and all those one-way mirrors.
But that’s about it. Since the late 1970s, science has created nothing of worth. It’s almost like it has some sort of writer’s block. And now it comes to us, offering this boisterous news headline: “First Ever Photo of Black Hole!” So are we supposed to pretend that this is thrilling? Because it’s not even interesting. Black holes possess value as a concept, not as decoration: We admire how they break the rules of our reality — anything that emphasizes the uncanny in the familiar is inspirational to humankind. But I don’t wanna gaze upon a black hole any more than I wanna see my healthy intestines. I just want my intestines to do their job; the less I hear from them, the better; and the last thing I want is to insert them into the family photo album.
And I hate when scientists rejoice and exclaim in relief: “Now we can finally understand black holes.” As if picture is the only tongue you speak, and everything must be translated into photo before you trust its truth. I’m against this ignorance. There’s not enough human mind involved. I favor artists’ renditions of such things.
Where man is not, nature is barren.
—as William Blake’s Marriage of Heaven and Hell always sez.
Also I think we already knew what a black hole looks like. It looks like what you get when you read dada prose. The black hole was one of the last beings to prefer the distinguished stance of imagelessness. Now you wanna force an image upon it? What’s next, give it a body? Yeah OK, let’s report: “Science at last caresses black hole’s left leg.”
Actually I like the idea of naming black holes. I mean christening them, during baptism. Because it’s fun to think up words to call new beings. This late back hole that they enslaved in a photo, I’ve named it Sherwin. Not for any genealogical reason, I just like how that sounds. And, if I’m going to be addressing him frequently, in our bi-weekly Anti Science Meetings (as I’m sure will be the case, now that they’ve made another unintentional convert), I want something that pleases me to utter.
Plus I’m fine with revealing black holes’ figures. That’s a good idea, I admit. I’m sorry I was so hard on you, when you first brought it up. I shouldn’t have lost my temper — I’ve just been having such a stressful week. My kids are both in daycare, but that didn’t stop them from opening up a daycare inside the daycare, where they teach illiteracy — I mean they actually cause their clients to un-learn the skill of reading, and they promote only visual knowledge via touchscreen — so, last night, when all the parents went to pick up their children at the end of the workday, they were told by the owner of the establishment: “I’m sorry, but Bryan and Sherwin’s girls have corralled our entire clientele into a sub-zone, and none of them want to leave that part of the room, as they’re so thoroughly entertained by this new lifestyle; for they spent their day interacting with each other on computing devices, and now not a single soul cares about poetry or art: they’ve all become members of the fascist STEM Squad (Science Technology Engineering Mathematics), which should really be re-named STEM Squid, cuz it’s attacking our maritime vessel, and it’s almost breaking it (I mean the vessel of the Human Form Divine) — anyway, long story short, ya can’t pick up your kids: they refuse to come out. Those merciless, velvet-voiced French girls have them in thrall. Have you heard their siren song? It’s ultramagnetic: You simply must try it.”
Thus, needless to say, I’m in hot water with the community again, because our children won’t stop enculting their children. Plus, next Friday is dedicated to parent-teacher conferences; & Sherwin has a scheduling conflict, which has yet to be resolved.
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