n10 – Plasma and Structures (страница 5)

He himself was not only himself. He was substance. Inside him was substance, and not just one. Outside there was also substance, and not just one. Inside one substance there were many substances, and inside those many, and between them, there were other many — like nesting dolls, liquid nesting dolls passing through other nesting dolls. They were like bubbles inside bubbles. They could pass through each other, could merge with others, forming larger and smaller ones. These bubbles could take different shapes — for example, in the form of a fish or a fish’s eye. And when the fish looked, small bubbles could travel from its eye to its brain — that was what it saw. And from outside, from what it saw, bubbles flew off that had come from space. Everything was relations between all possible forms of bubbles inside one large fluctuating formless bubble.

Once a fish overcame itself and became a human. Perhaps one day a human will also overcome himself and change form. Once, a man entered a shot glass bar and began to overcome himself. There was a time when everything was different. He was tiny, smaller than a millimeter. He grew larger and overcame everything. Sometimes everything overcame him and he shrank, but then he grew again. He pulsated.

He left the shot glass bar, walked down the street and pulsated. The bus engine pulsated. Workers pulsated. A streetlamp pulsated at fifty hertz. He walked calmly, measuredly, stepping on the cobblestones in such a way that his shoe compositionally did not violate the boundaries. The changing forms of tiles, puddles, roads, and alleys merged into mathematical intuitivism.

He crossed one street, then another, describing lines, arcs, spirals. He conducted experiments with electromagnetic waves without any emitters or installations. He observed, analyzed, remembered, compared, twisted, rotated, symmetrized, compressed, stretched, disappeared. He disappeared in one place and appeared in another. He wandered through villages, fields, mountains. He was a mountain, a stone, snow, a tree, sand, soil. He was straw, a fly, a spider, a potato, an onion, flour, a spoon, a pie, a yoke, a fence. He lived in the village and was the nose of an old man, the wheel of a freight train. He traveled the world, was a button in a spaceship, a wire on the Moon, a photon. He became a photon and left the galactic arm, got on a tram, and rode home.

He took a piece of chalk and began to draw. He drew a triangle in which all angles were right angles. He drew a round square, a square oval, and an oval polygon with one angle. He drew a circle, and inside it another circle that was larger than the outer one. He added yet another outer circle that consisted of right angles and was smaller than the second. He lowered the upper board, fixed the sound of the board’s wheel on it, turned the bicycle upside down, attached a rattle, and began to construct diagrams of rhythmic synchronicities with events on the roof of the neighboring house and with the movements of pigeons.

He picked up the receiver, listened to the beeps, turned the coil of the telephone and the knob of the radio, and watched how the pigeons spun around their own axis. This formed intuitionist implications. He looked out the window and implicated passersby. Someone was hurrying, someone was lighting a pipe, someone was carrying a bucket of sand. One man carried a two-by-two sheet of plywood, another carried a box, pliers, a hammer, nails. Two carried a pipe. A man in a jacket carried a twenty-liter bottle. All of them created a changing rhythm.

He took a typewriter out of the closet and began to type. He typed words that had already existed before his birth. But if that particular order of his own words was isomorphic to his genetics, then who was typing the text? Could it be that genetic algorithms were typing their own intonations? he thought. He thought that it was they who had thought about themselves, and he, at the same time. No matter what he typed, he was typing a map — a map of himself. Even if what was printed spoke about how he was typing a text inside which he sat at a typewriter typing himself, he was still fractally printing himself, sitting at the typewriter and not in front of it. And at the same time he remained in the memory of friends, in the memory of a dog. Wherever he was, he left imprints everywhere of what had existed before his birth — which had imprinted itself in the form of himself, continuing consciously and unconsciously, accidentally and intentionally, to imprint itself in space, which itself was an imprint.

These were layers. He moved between layers.

Once he took a tabla out of its case and began to play combinations of four variables: ta ka di mi. He connected this with the four DNA bases and the fact that systems of calculation, the tabla, and the gong were invented in India. That rhythm is topos. Topoi are mathematical universes. By producing rhythm, a universe is born. Rhythmic interweavings are interweavings of universes. Rhythm is connected with repetitions. Repetitions immerse one in trance. Trance is connected with synchronicity. Trance is samadhi. Samadhi is infinity.

Repetitions are practice.

Practice is mantra.

Mantra is memory.

Memory is life.

Life is rhythm.

Rhythm is pulse.

Pulse is breathing.

Breathing is meditative.

Meditative is sattva.

Sattva is purity.

The next day, at lunchtime, he heard someone speaking to him on the radio. He told everyone to be quiet, knocked on the neighbors’ door and said he had just heard a knock at the door. No one opened. Someone was talking on the radio. He approached the radio and began turning the knob. The voice began to speed up and slow down. He tuned the voice. The voice said: “Turn one knob to mark four, the other to mark five.” Then the voice said: “Take a step back and do thirty push-ups. Bring new resistors and replace the transformer. Connect the speakers. Attach the amplifier. Across the road there is a good premises. Ring the doorbell, say ‘owl in the suitcase.’ In a few seconds you will see an envelope, a key, and leaflets under the door. Pass the leaflets to the person on rollers at the entrance to the editorial office. A journalist will come out from there and hand you an envelope. Two blocks away is the institute. There, at the entrance from the courtyard, there is a janitor. Give him the envelope. He will check it and give you a case. Wait. A taxi will arrive. Go out of town. Get out at the power plant. There, along the road through the forest, people will meet you. Open the case, carefully take out the capsule with the button on it, press it. The case and the people will disappear. Walk along the road to their car. Use the capsule if you see anyone — they are not real, it’s a hologram. In the car there should be a small device, gray, resembling a cube. It is semi-transparent, possibly in the glove compartment. This cube creates the hologram. Take it in your hand, don’t be afraid. Synchronize with it. It will show you that you are in empty space. Create space using your imagination. It doesn’t work immediately. Try changing locations. Do not move more than twenty-two thousand kilometers away from the cube. Use the capsule if you feel that something is wrong. And remember — everything tends toward equilibrium.”

In the room where he found himself there were books and magazines. They contained images of people who did not exist, but he knew they did exist — they had merely transformed. They existed in the form of their children. And those who had no children still existed. If someone invented the radio and had no children, he transformed into the radio. The degree of a fisherman transformed into rice. Children came to school and ate rice. The mathematics teacher transformed chalk into a bagel. Across the road was a bakery with tubes, nearby lay braids, triangles, rectangles. He asked for half a rectangle, wrapped it in paper, came home, set the package aside, took a ball, divided it into rings, took a formless substance, placed it in a concave form, added rings, subjected it to heat treatment. He took another formless substance, placed it in another concave form, put spirals in it, and also subjected it to heat treatment. He merged the substances, mixed the rings and spirals.

He took a linguistic translator and angularly translated the rings and spirals into pasta and onion sections. He took a geometric translator and translated them back into spirals and rings. He was always surrounded by forms that translated into words. Words translated into dopamine, into actions. Actions were the translation itself. Everything intertwined and was itself an interweaving. It represented categories, sections, levels.

He looked at everything through thermodynamic glasses. Years passed. Space continued to structure itself. Some structures maintained stability, others did not. Relying on stable structures, he decoded something. If he decoded something, then he was encoding something. And if he was encoding something, then he was decoding something. Overall, he was recoding — building upon what existed, and it became different, yet remained itself. In childhood he looked different, but he had always remained himself.