Apparent Lie

Apparently ‘Aminta lay’ in the arms of Arphra Behn ‘all night long’ and it was a five. A clear five. No frills or frollicking, just good decent ‘let’s pretend we’re hetero’ sex.

And at that moment in time my great-great-great-greats (and possibly greats) were planning fiestas and siestas in the blackest corners of Holland, making their blue-eyed babies and heaving out their blond heirs-and-spares.

I swear to the Great Pantheist Mother (whom I have created in my head for lack of friends) that I will be more. What is more, and what is less?

What is mathematics? What is value, what is worth? What is feeling, what is not? What is bird and what is moon? What is dawn that comes too soon?

I tell you this: it is imagined.

I am an idea; you are an idea.

My great-great’s mentioning of claws clinging was ‘imagined’.

And there is a world out there, an alleged world that exists beyond the one we sense (so sensitively) and deliver to our heads and twist about and tangle until: there is no world but the one in our heads.

And so this alleged world is merely mentioned: this is a process.

And this, this is mathematics.

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