Shin Aluinis Gabralai 3

They bought some Y-Bhang from a New Dervish vendor, and, holding hands, they ascended the brightwood stairway up to the upper galley of the Green Library.

“I’ve a fun idea: let’s watch the Droid Bards!”

“Are you serious? What are we, teenage kids?”

“Come on, don’t go acting all senior, I know you’d love it. Besides, don’t you want to make me happy? Droid Bard Battles are my favourite!”

The Library galleys were packed. A different group of festival goers in here. Actually the crowd was mostly middle Rites, suburban husband and wives on date nights, aging and fading scoober ravers, all properly settled into their lives with their Orgs and their families, but today adorned with the sparkles and designer snorkels and goggles of their youth, in contrast to their now sensible and conservative powdered faces and purple company braids. Seemed only pre-Rites here being offworld rich kids on Gabralai tourism, the Green Library being famous for being the birthplace of modern Balladry.

She looked at him and smiled, imbibing her Y-Bhang. “Cheers!”

Almost immediately he felt his perceptions shift. He felt happy, cool, natural, comfortable in his own skin, with her, amongst this crowd. The humidity of Art’s summer tasted sweet.

She rose with the crowd to cheer the mechanicals as they entered the stage.

The Chief Librarian played Tamadan, swanning about from his oversight box. As he bellowed into his mic, the spot light moved from one droid to the next.

“B Rise! 0-Successor! And the Antonym makes 3!”

Whoops from the crowd. B Rise was dressed in a black suit with bowler hat, performed a theatrical bow at his introduction, a wry smile upon his sliver lips. 0-Successor was a shining red droid: at her introduction she extended her 8 hands into a series of beatific mudras, he recognized as signs of the Vedic-K Army. The Antonym received the biggest round of applause, recognized as the reigning champion of Balladry for at least the past 4 years. A barely visible, partly perceptible presence, it shimmered and glitched at its announcement.

“You know I read somewhere that the Antonym’s designers styled him using old camouflage tech from the Crusades. Don’t you think it’s funny that what is now so chic and cool was once seriously military tech?”

“Really? Oh well … Who cares?” She shrugged. “Oh well at least he battles like a soldier, and drops rhymes like bombs.”

“Ha ha, funny.”

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Shin Aluinis Gabralai 2

They went out into the carnival.

The eunuchs of Toralei, clad in vermillion, high on the throat drip (“My husband calls them throat droppers”), the devotees of the Plateaux-Yoni, dressed in Earth England tweed, improvising poetry as they dance, the ecstatic Malamatiya of Old Mars, reeling from their ritual psychonautic rites of the day, kissing the air with such expressions of bliss, like identity doesn’t matter, like subjecthood doesn’t matter, like he and she and their little affair … doesn’t matter.

How he envied them.

But admired, and entered, entertained — no, not justinasmuch as he could these days.

Shin Aluinis Gabralai

Shin Alunis Gabralalai!

The celebrants dance through the streets, beating upon their drums, in praise of their gods. Painted and high on their despicable inhalant knowledge … Noisy! I’m trying to sleep, when I have my meeting with Earth HQ tomorrow. Gah, I wish I had double glazing, I mean for fuck’s sake it’s the 31st century and still double glazing isn’t a given. Well, it’s a corporate apartment, just another month, then we get to move into our own place, our own space in Aris-2-Art.

A space we’ll make our own, quickly. Maybe to settle. Contract for him and me, it’s open ended. I wanted to get away, I guess. Break up our routine … maybe … it’s what my therapist says anyway. It seemed so route, him with his rising stardom within the Corporation, me with my “hobby” at in the Institute. I mean, it’s my mother’s money, that brought us here, took him from that opportunity, he really does love me, that he’d do that, give that up, to follow me and my mother’s money, when over there … well, he’d never make it but he’d be “adequately proactive”, as my sweet Nanny X would say. Oh god, now I’m remembering when mother fired her. I was devastated: Nanny X was my only sympathetic, truly maternal figure in childhood. Forgive me, I’m drunk. I’m getting emotional and incoherent.

“No. Don’t say that. Your stories are beautiful, because they’re from you, and you are beautiful. Go on.”

I don’t know. Well here we are, in Aris-2. Art. Don’t you think they’ve started giving the colonies really weird postfixes of late? I mean, Art is okay for this planet. But Ghenhennon Shri-Rank-B-Boy? So classically obscure. Anyway. Ok.

“Ok?”

Ok.

“You know what I think?”

No.

“You’re reflecting upon your move to Aris, feeling guilty about making him compromise, which is, admit it, what you wanted … and then immediately hooking up with me. Who in turn was planning to take his family back to HQ. Our stellar journeys interlocked, when it should have been separate journeys all the way.”

You said you’ve had many other relationships, that this has happened before.

“Yes. But not like this. This is something … new.”

When I sober up I’m going to find that last statement so offensive and frustrating. And you won’t even know why. I can’t believe I’ve fallen in love with a Tailorite. My mother would be appalled. And my shrink would be appalled that I’m appalled at the thought of my mother being appalled. Oh my god, I’m such a hot mess.

“Come here. Ok, look up at the sky. You were born on earth, just like the rest of us, not like my kids. You’re still first generation, even though we make a thing about our age difference. Look at the stars. Earth constellations, Scorpio, Leo, Orion, the northern star … ”

You’re right. They’re gone. They’re all gone!

“No. Listen to me. They’re not gone. They’re still there. Same stars, same distances, same configuration. Just a different perspective. And that’s what we are. A different perspective.”

Fuck you. Don’t try to fucking weasel your way out of this with some kind of metaphysical bullshit!

Shin Alunis Gabralalai!

“Well that hurts. Hey, why don’t we join the celebrants. Shin Alunis Gabralalai! Womb Planet/Word Rejoice/Intent/Emerge! Is the translation.”

How did you find the time to learn all this shit? Well, okay, I guess I could do with some fresh air and a drink. Let’s go then.

Mathematics 4

Number is intent. Another way of phrasing it: each algebra is intent, each algebra has a subject, even though it’s mathematics, it’s still a subject, albeit the subject of the Cogito. That’s the purpose Decartes’ Meditations serve us now: to relate the subject to the algebras of data that the subject wills itself into, via number, via algebra.

Mathematics 3

I assert the following within the space of the Cartesian, within the space of the cogito and the a priori to follow.

There was nothing. But then, by virtue of that, there was the one, the subject. And from nothing, and the one, there was succession: succession as a relationship term derived one from nothing. And by virtue of succession, number. And by virtue of number, algebras, and metric spaces, and topology and … well, all systems, ultimately.

Mathematics 2

Philosophy of mathematics has little to do with intent, in the performative sense. Intent is treated instead by philosophers of logic, as a field for categorisation and analysis. But if number is core to the philosophy of mathematics, then something is amiss. Because number is intent: number is nothing more than intent.

I don’t mean (well, maybe I do mean) to be provocative. If you’ve read my train of thought before, you might imagine I’m about to justify numerology as legitimate within the hagiography of Truth’s emergence or something to that effect.

I mean something very specific about number, irrespective of its framing within whatever dialectic its anthropological historicity is thrown. Ha ha.

I want to say number is nothing more than intent.

In the Cartesian philosophy game: that’s the scope of my statement. Take the meditations. Number, and its algebra, emerges post cogito as a priori indisputable reality. Intent of the subject to claim the territory the a a priori for itself.

Intent to emerge into something real, intent, desire, desire to expand, expound, prove the reality of the subject and the subject’s reality as Real. And by “prove the subject’s reality as Real”, of course we mean just speak — because, as everyone knows, metaphysics is a lie — and speech is all there is, language is all there is. “Reality” and the “Real” are, after all, just words being spoken, each with a particular intent, a weight determined by philosophy as a regulator of such signs. Their weight is nuclear: particularly when combined with the sign of the subject.

Note well: the first taste of “Reality” and the “Real” are felt in Descartes immediately after the Cogito. If I am at least certain I exist because I’m thinking, then what else follows? Number, hence mathematics. I know that there’s at least one of me. So hence “one”, an abstract, a priori, but certainly existent thing. But once I conceive of the successor to one, and the successor to the successor of one, and so on: I can’t say that these are imaginary or not Real, as they are definitely Real, by virtue of their relationship of successor to the Real one. Then functions and algebra and so on.

The argument is itself (a priori as it is), both the Cartesian Logicians own personal meditation, full of intent to be and to speak, in and of him or herself, but also the peculiar truth about the a priori space itself. There is a subject within that space. It is 0, nothing, but being. And from that 0, there is the a priori, existent concept of successorship. And from that 0 meets the Real, in s(0). But successorship is the first function and from that axioms, and mathematics and code, and language. The Cartesian meditation has both an undocumented psycho-anthropological aspect, as well as built upon a long ignored profoundly gnostic and mystical foundation, rooted in number as intent.

Mathematics 1

“There is no such thing as types — it’s all terms, and terms in relation to terms that stand in relation to terms that reflect upon relationships!” Thus declaims the RDF Ontologist. But also, curiously, the classical model theorist of the 1950s; Henkin’s approach to type hierarchies, one of the first papers to appear in that sadly no irrelevant Journal of Symbolic Logic; and Martin-Lof’s foundation of computing. For that latter Swedish philosopher had the intent to frame mathematics as computation over data, and computation as a mathematics of data, but wherein, crucially, both types and terms are merely impredicative datapoint. 

In my middle age, my own PhD and research in this topic now a distant memory, I find myself reflecting more emotionally upon that statement, those theorists. The domain aside, they each address the dialectic of thing/categorization versus thing/thing, of Plato versus pragmatism, and this dialectic is, in other places, something deadly, potentially. The mathematicians and philosophers: their statements are a turn, of thought, of the dialectic, and imbued fully with the triumphant  revolutionary emotions of any such turn.

I draw on that kind of emotion, these days, increasingly. So even though, as a practically religious type theorist, it might sound strange: I say now “The ‘category:Thing’ is nothing more than data, so in many ways, I’d prefer to say ‘thing:(thing:Thing)’, predicatively.”