THE INFINITE PROJECT FIRST DRAFT OF PART ONE

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         Eyelight

How, at this light of time
Can I, a being bright yet dark, unblind
this aspect under the eye, and, breeding:
breed thus a truth? Not a general, transcendent truth that 
sparkles like a light on a gay green Christmas tree, but
some signal interchanged: some moment:
this, all this....

It began somehow, and I
and you also, got caught up in it all:
you know, the usual thing, the he/she/it and the
terrible lovely, and and the Begin: the big big single 
bang bang boom!

the singular begin.......................................it hangs here

Our task is: never to waver, to neither look right nor left:
and indeed as I know you are thinking, there are certain uncertainties whose monstrous beauty is almost nearly tiresome:
Why couldn't the matter: the deep stuff in the dark spring of things:
why couldn't it get in control? Why wern't we informed immediately?


There has to be an inquiry of course. What was the matter with
the matter? Could I tell you? That it kept throwing moulds, kept
re-shaping – kept touching the clay and rebreeding life and so on:
but nothing is ever perfect as you’ve probably noticed. Matter
and fire for example are surely forever at war.

The special thing that burns in the eye: they are in conflict.
Eternal. The usual thing: Dog has set up a conflict, a complex:
a complex conflict like a five volume analysis of Finnegans Wake.
The Joycean, the Miltonic thing: which ever turns you on or out.

     nothing is connected – somehow.

An enormous luminosity grew between her eyes and we were dumfounded:

forgetting what was origin, orange, apple, or
where the serpent had parked the sedan beside the spreading sneer of the evening’s trees who were lush and unapproachable in the growing and licentious gloom whose possibilities mean so much, especially to the few in the know. So I stand outside in derided non-decision, forever a pastel perhaps: struggling to at least reach the status of a syllable, or even a new word. 

Or had you noticed. Lets go inside...I have things to discuss...

        The Bright Revolve

To see with the naked eye

what was seen with the naked eye:

back back back back,

and forth, and back and forth:

and in true, these black-faced mirrors

shiver reflect the wilderness

of backward forward fragment worlds

that are strange agonal with toe and claw.

That acting agony. It cannot be said. Again.

At night: the crucifix cries. This slow,

dark dance. The pen, finally, dies – and the painter’s

brush, the oboe, and the ink. Those gone aways.

Look out to that bright revolve. Nothing is about.

Who is that old man who rages in the storm?

The and what speak you a third more opulent man?

When I began, I .... I knew something. No matter.

What is it in us that we mutter, meander, and muse

on things dissolving as we do?

Roots limbs nerves trees stand stark:

black veins on eye-light scrawled .

To perish powerfully, despite ferocity, and

the queerness of how you are becoming a spoon.

You have hell in your hands.

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It was this that set me to use 'eyelight' as in:

black veins on eye-light scrawled

I later wrote the poem called EYELIGHT, or had I written it and then named it thus?

 Lines from my poems are used in any case...that is        they are 'recycled', and or fragmented etc

   "Who were the first people ?"

Origins - Who?

This is an image of a work by Len Lye, a great New Zealand artist, sculptor experimental filmaker, and philosopher. I took a day off work once in about 1986 and went to the Auckland Art gallery - and came across his strange work -one sculptural work is a "model" or a symbol of the universe in the form of a huge band of steel attached to an electromagnet which oscillates at mains frequency I assumed and through hysteresis etc causes the steel bands to pulsate; and as they do there is an awesome booming sound. Lye was fascinated by cosmology and the macro and the microcosmic. Science and metaphsyics come together in his work I think. At that time I hadn't written (or read significantly) much for many years and had never heard of Lye or Stan Brakhage - but later I was to learn that my lecturer in English - Roger Horrocks was doing a book on Len Lye, which as since been published. Lye's work ws shown at the Pompidou Centre in Paris. His work is on view in New Plymouth.

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   ___________________

   How, at this light of time
      

      can I, a being bright yet dark,

      unblind this aspect under the eye,

      and, breeding:

  breed thus a truth?

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there are some things that we, The Eternal Wanters, need point out hereforth as we, evading the things only to embrace their shadows: forever step inside and outside the flowing stream whose impossibility screams out across time, say like a Philoctetic wound and right now that beauty is truth etc etc is offset by that "repetition is truth" which all we know always is tapping on the shoulder and offering a friendly cough: it is about here they entered, bowing to the Endless Moomlings whose presence must needs always be known: and much time indeed was spent in genuflecting spasms: much was spoke and the old warriors swapped lurid yarns of increasing absurdity and deeper and deeper blood enriched: times past of those things attempted and the deep fears overcome, the raids, the malfunctions, the technical journals, the scraps, electrodes, spasms of lace, dust, photographs of time, light bulbs, broken toys, forgotten wrongs, wire tangles, planks: all these somehow viatllyyet futiley converged until plastic swans arrived to carry them afar:

behind new glowing slogans blazed on the fabricated sky as all

things shook with the terror of a great knowing immediately

forgotten as the dustbins clanged shut and an apple mountain

began to explode

everything, every wince, every move, every speck, has to be recorded:

nothing must escape the endlessly scanning eye....nothing.....

                           ______________

       

   

                                               

God hides in the Stone these days

[ u s e l e s s ]
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Ythe the picture blurs at this point. It is notable too how time
endorses time:Rome,The Romans, Hadrian with his elephants chging
to what death, what old rapes, destructions, decimations? In fact,

what catacombs of doom, what screams, what desire, what shouts, what

this

open at the neck

the beginning of a double chin: tho there is no suggestion of obesity.

The chair, wooden, is straight-backed, as befits a working writer. The
walind is also wooden, with horizontal slats of varnished pine[or is it Rimu?), showing knot holes and questioning swirls that

mossly forever move. The hands, pinkish, clasp a tentative teacup. Closer to myself or to the other viewer, another teacup, harmless enough, almost innocent, swims or blurs into view. Perhaps it’s the photographer’s? Who knows, the world’s a shit sandwich,by which the more bread or oil you’ve got,the less crap you consume... Suddenly therstirs in me a sense of something maybe of the abyme [the boredom, the horror) - perhaps of a mad penis, or a steel machine, car twisted with all e violence and greed of a night of blood and booze and semen in whose centre a man is grunting and gasping, as if dying, and the woman is heaving and screaming and shuddering with luimum dead fall terminal velocity in fact — and given that F = 1/2
mv squared, then we have, say: 1 tonne x 200 squared, divide two,
returns about 20 kN of final force....*

l, though, nothing, however vague, can be divined, or
concluded from the observation of this picture...

in fact we think of
Caliban, and the evil in the woods.

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unto and into the slit green goatunto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat
unto and into the slit green goat

by grass and dust, the road I strode

who dances claps to flute and light in that genetic other dream?

how, at this light of time

a beingbright yetttasadark,

unblind never cold the dhapshpasdfses

this aspectwaett under the eye, and, breeding:

breed thus a truth? eral, trans cendenttruth that sdarkles

like a light on a ga y green a asdifstmas tree,t

some signal TERRIBLE LOVELY interchane mont:

thiasds, all this.... It began somehow, and I

and you also, got caught up in it all:

as ouy and the Begin: the big big single bang bang boom!

Ho wis it yoasf dintu ndferestand meawf ina the sdfu treasm

t: it terrified meandf

“and indeed as I know you are thinking, there are certain uncertainties

whose monstrous beauty is almost nearly tiresome:

Why couldnt the matter: the deep stuff in the dark spring of things:

why couldnt it get in control? as to be an inquiry of course. What was the matter with

BREED THUS?

the matt? Could I tell you? astwey afg iasdfui;y That it kept throwing mold s, kep t

re-shaping – kept touching the clay and rebreeding life and so on:

but nothing is ever perfect as you’ve probably noticed. Matter

and fire for asddf examplae arwtyr apton asdfnnarvhiece surey foaweteveatwasd arq. To th

traaccbeole seddaavmn vbnd I w onted u

The special thing that burns in the eye::

LUUUOOUUUUVVEUUUUEVEDDDDDDDDDEDED

BURNS in theethre EYE doulsdf yhr shapees chabegne eber?
a compleconflict like adf e volumawe lysis of fsdf ans k sdga

The Jn, thec Mtnic thing: which evetr ns youon a sdt orout.

a enormouslumin osity grewwa e nd we were dumpfound ed: forgettinga whatw asa a in athty ggennetiivc overther rdwoaon (traum

black voons on oieyligeht sceoowleddded & blvk c faced moiorrers

“origin, orange, apple, or

where the serpent had parked the sedan beside the spreading sneer of the evening’s trees who were lush and unapproachable in the growing and licentious gloom whose possibilities mean so much, especially to the few
in the know. So I stand outside in derided non-decision, forever
a pastel perhaps: struggling to at least reach the status of a syllable, “.

hell of conjunctions, despairing boat of heaven’s

genetic imperative lost in (the) if it would

be thus be thus be what. but. when. Prog.the Prog. Prog bounced into the central oblonwoogle—twist by the slippery sexual whereroom was mother father maother father mnother afather sonme chadughter you fniwe are hjhrtuyoai lcv eoruihn rtied to fghrtohsdflhnsdf oshasduhrnrtnet muvhlyrei I fg ig agaotst

ARE WE unzipped up beside the orrogenous octomorph. THOSE CHEMICAL GHOSTS

could there (there) could there could beheard so commotion? and the Event Wave? Did they

mention the Event? loud? to startle the wave gods?

Richard, You MUST try to be more focused — your ideas and observations

are good, but you tend to wander A GREAT DEAL, repeat yourself etc. -

you must give yourself time to structure your work. Re—write, revise.

This was obviously written in a rush. C+/B+

But this issurela ya rrognic. Goodas a body of light

ARE WE

THOSE

CHEMICAL GHOSTS ?

nota bene both the notion of infinity and that of information
both in philosophy and our “every day” are problematic concepts. It
is not known whether infInity exists either ideationally or de facto.
Cantor discovered the Aleph Null but the concept of countable sets

involves contradiction.As to information: information is not meaning.

Information is the greatness of differencebetween things.It would be
simplistic to conclude that knowledge ishence difference only . But
information is directly proportional tothe uncertainty of the
difference between the uncertaintyof a message beingexistent after
it has been received and the probability of their having been a
message before the information was sent. To pu t it mr cn c I *)\\\
gweryu juerqtyp432lo95879reh;kj4351vb87
bjh435g76986O924r9pj;wsal~)(*iT(LIH and thus:

information I received = log [ a posteriori probability

------------------------------

[ a priori pro bability

from which it can easily be seen that the greater the uncertainty,

the greater the information co nveyed

on the recurrent occasion of the obliteration/of hiztory,where the

carriage circles again/in the melancholy of departure

dice-bones, to calculate the odds

a mirror to distort the truth (The pieces are rearranged, not having moved)

something. something in the hole and screaming fothe right to die inside the vibrant
yet unspeakable bush of shells; one day to be

was it worth the sexless Beetroot Question yes?

and what of Blue Paste in Music Land? (matter?

about now and before there was an intense these are mountain days that corporate after everything.
Moogs, as you were well aware, were everywhere.
much as if the scapula zoomed out.
therapy? nothing
prepared us for. did thus if what i you did that

honey hot got poured? and as the. what if him the pen.

what burned? naturellement monsieur! Golly. perpetually reconstituted
inside the Basics or sunk in shit

while others did they made wheels of flesh.

Idiot Attack as it would if said: “thou cream-faced loon”.

who did he if it was orgulous require

“You! You gettin’ dawn thar an’ berry tha’ alt wead!”

duck waddle and
Twaddle Face (nervously), fingering his hegemony, moved into the

in

ti

mate

circ

le

She







yes?

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She?
































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1. Open vs. Closed Universe   [Beatrice Tinsley, NZ Pioneer in Astrophysics]

Beatrice writing to her father, says "it may be bad science, as you say 'bad science' to like the universe being open because it feels better, but there is in me a strong delight in that possibility. I think I am tied to the idea of expanding for ever - like life in a sense - more than spatial infinity. In fact more complicated theories are possible, in which the universe is closed spatially, so finite in extent, but will expand for ever. Eddington was wedded philosophically to that model. Currently James Gunn and I are working on the possibility that a model like this really fits the observations best. I'm afraid it's so complicated to get good enough data and bright enough ideas, that we may never feel sure. It amuses me the way scientists' philosophical prejudices colour their arguments. Our friend Jerry Ostriker and I continually accuse each other of making biased scientific arguments because he says I really want the universe to be open, and I say he really wants it to be closed. Gets us nowhere but makes good parties. "

Make it. Do your thing. Let's see which joins. Lets multiply the

conceptualities. Lets invent and keep to the road. But lets get something

out. Lets be what we think we might be. Lets be. It is interesting. It

is good to think. The short words. All things could be. Play the field.

This could be generative. Work at it. Don't work too much. Eat. It might be

time. Who?

….her with the exception of are

short, elegant, eccentric, and sophisticated, with touches of the bizarre

and the perverse, and her use of narrative omniscience is

about here they

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Here the ende was approaching, this we knew: yet each end reached out to the other end pulling itself to the other thus remaking so that end became begining and beginning end in my end was and thus we would seem to stop, or cease, bringing in the note. And thus the pebbles and thus the waves. And thus.

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*NOTE: The figures given in the "mad rant" above (from a poem I wrote which here is combined with another one) are wrong. I've used the formula for Kinetic Energy and imagined or seem to have assumed the terminal velocity of a falling object (which is always at about a maximum of 54 m / second squared according to good old Wikipedia). I remembered this formula as it was quoted to me when my brother in law to be who was studying physics smashed our garage door (that of his father in law to be!). That was Leonard Priestley. The entire door seemed to explode even though he was traveling quite slowly.

It is impossible for me, even if I ever knew (I did study some of this stuff years ago) to calculate the force that Princess Diana's car was travelling in exerted when it hit a wall (I think it was, causing her tragic death).
The car's velocity is not easily known, the angle the car impacted the wall, and so on. Force is mass x acceleration (deceleration is the same). The trouble is, how do engineers calculate acceleration in this case (that is the deceleration as the car slowed from time 1 to time n (when the car stopped)): I don't suppose anyone did this, maybe they simply have an idea from experience and if necessary they do calculations. They can't be accurate but would give a relative picture of the force or forces which are measured in Newtons. I forgot also that metres are used and kilograms. So the entire formula and results are nonsensical. And to cap it all, in my book Conversation with a Stone I left off the 'squared'. I looked up the ways Newton's formulae are derived and calculated but decided to put it all into the too hard basket.

One day a picky science or physics trained person will pick this up! Someone might even be able to find an engineer's report on the accident.

And, thinking of it, [I was never very good at physics or mathematics] the sloppy physics and dubious formulae used fits the poem as the "writer" (the "speaker" in the poem should say, not the author as such) as well as those involved could also have been drunk...that is the "writer" who is raving or indeed 'accelerating' in his aside to his description of the poet (who was pictured in the Listener a year or so after Diana's death). The aside has nothing to do with the description. I only wrote the poem. To cap that the poem as it was written is as mangled as the car.

It would be nice to claim I 'planned' all this but the entire poem and this mangled version was just something done on 'the spur of the moment' as they say in the trade. In fact chance and happenstance indeed play large roles in this project and much writing. Frequently the rationale for the why of inaccuracies, while being wrong as such, make good sense. This brings me to a big hobby horse, that of the problem of knowledge which is certainly a theme throughout this project.