Infinity is a necessary frustration. It also is immensely terrifying. Particularly that point where eternity and infinity intersect, some kind of swirling maelstrom perhaps, or maybe a moment of incredible stasis, silence, somnolence, where Pascal can be barely heard, “When I consider the short duration of my life, swallowed up in the eternity before and after, the little space which I fill and even can see, engulfed in the infinite immensity of spaces of which I am ignorant and which know me not, I am frightened and am astonished at being here rather than there; for there is no reason why here rather than there, why now rather than then. Who has put me here? By whose wonder and direction have this place and time been allotted to me? The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.”
So what happens when something is completed, something that had been considered infinite reaches, for a moment, a point of finitude. It is like unrequited love becoming requited, and thence a source of disillusionment. Better not to reach that point, but to remain in that state of becoming, in all senses of the word. But that stage of finishing a sizable project, sending it out into the world, and being left with nothing but a void, yawning, gaping, aching, awaiting something to rush in, swirl in and take its place. To restore infinity.
Infinity Culvert, Halswell (that ends well), May 2008, JB
Posted by JACKY BOWRING in 06:00:22 |