The circle begins (if circles can
rightly said to have beginnings) in mystery. Or let us rather say doubt. But
no, not doubt, rather let us say misunderstanding. But then that is not it
either. It does not begin with misunderstanding; rather let us say it begins
with something not understood.
The ratio
of a circle, the number that makes perfect its comprehension of its origin,
completes its boundary without overlap, makes it full without overlapping again
onto itself, this ratio is itself incomprehensible. The ratio upon which the
circle depends is itself irrational, a ratio that cannot be expressed as a
ratio.
If this does not make you grin all sly and secretive than I
don’t know how we can continue. Practice at this. Grinning at the incongruity,
make your grin incongruous, let it begin in your toes, and the balls of your
feet, let your grin be a dance as you consider the true way of things. Extend
it finally up through your knees, your gut, your chest, your throat, let it
burst out gently over your lips. Pick a side, left or right, it doesn’t matter.
You have been given, like Buredin’s ass, a luxurious choice. Don’t let the
ambiguity of it destroy you. Let the grin curl your lips on one side, drawing
them upward towards your eyes. Now can you see it? Good, now we can begin.
—
In the beginning
there is no thing but let us not say there is nothing. For even without a thing
which is, there is still the foundation of what is. Or rather let us say there
is being, but being without predication. We cannot yet talk of it, because it
is not known, it is not predicated. Is not understood. There is nothing for us
to say about it. Because at this point we have not invented ratios, or numbers, much less
realized some numbers cannot be expressed as ratios. For now a circle is just a
circle. It is one circle, or two circles, or three circles. It is a circle too
small, or slightly over-large, or just right for what it ought to be. A circle
is a mushroom’s cap. The disk of the full moon. The rim of a well made pot, or
the space encompassed within that rim. For us a circle is neither rational or
irrational, it is not understood in those terms. A circle is known and not
yet understood. Consequently it is a delight. But even now we get ahead of
ourselves. For in the beginning there are not even circles as circles, nor are
there numbers rational or irrational. Nevertheless there is still delight.
In the
beginning there is a bird singing, there is a delighted gasp, there is a
knowing embrace of all that will come later. It is a moment too deep for what
we speak of as joy. But perhaps that is the best we can do for now. Perhaps
later when we have had more time to build languages that more accurately
express the reality of things we will come up with a word that has the proper
weight to it; a word that is not so cumbersome and inexact. For now joy will have to
do. In the beginning there is joy. And a dancing grin that comes up and down
from the bottom and top. That circles out from the origin, and in that moment
before which there are no other moments is the beginning.
—
The circle
begins with this mystery. And with the circle begun we move on.
—
As the pot
is tipped over, it begins to roll away, down the slight decline of the
courtyard. And a new element is introduced. The mind encompasses not the shape,
but the function of the shape, the meaning, the distance. The cartwright
measures out the spokes, the rim. He develops the tools needed to assist him in
creating irrational realities. The circles of wheels, and axles, and
ball bearings. The orbits of planets and moons. The probability fields of
electrons. Circles quantified and measured. And the circle is become a
gear, its teeth biting into the reality of things, propelling us forward. Now, at
last, we not only know, we comprehend. We see how things fit together and we
ride this bicycle to work. But we do not really comprehend. Instead we forget
that the wheels and gears are irrational beings.
And thus
the circle ends, if indeed a circle has an end, where it began. The watchmaker
having memorized the gears of the watch takes up gardening. And he sees gears
in the grass, a single blade more complicated than the most accurate and
complex masterpiece of his craft. He plants seeds. And the circle of his
comprehension covers the ground; the truth of the gear is not in its teeth, but
in the perfection of the relationship between its origin and the irrational number
that governs it. So it ends as it began, in mystery, doubt, misunderstanding,
the not understood. Reality is comprehended in a number we cannot ever fully know.
—
Dear God, I am a circle. I am an
irrational being, a being which comprehends a space. A being which has
substance that cannot be accurately measured, but which seeks to measure. I am
wanting. I am full. I am a reality that is predicated, whose movements are
predictable. I am an equation full of ratios, ratios whose numerators are
irrational numbers. I exist in the breadth of Your existence. I spring from you
as a circle springs irrationally from its origin. I am something other than
You, but my existence revolves around You. I can comprehend neither the
beginning nor the end of myself, and my being is what it is because it
comprehends those things. Am I an infinity or a singularity? Or am I neither? Am
I simply a moment that has come after that moment which we call joy? Dear God,
complete in us the irrational work of your Spirit. Finish what you originated.
Bring me to that perfect end that I can encompass, but cannot comprehend. Bring
me to Your perfectly irrational being which comprehends me with a joy I know
but cannot comprehend.
