Dear Mark, Mark, Alf, and Jeffrey:
I am proposing a succinct, albeit labyrinthian, relationship between MB balancing (and rotating as in a motor protein) on the back of a submerged sea serpent, the expanded definition of lyfe on Mars and the tones available from the earthen bell..
The closest I can come to, thus far, is that they represent lines of an unsingable song, written in the code of ‘little dancing men’ from Sherlock Homes and the Secret Weapon, scribbled, in between the lines of the lost, poisoned, book of Aristotle in the Abby library of the Name of the Rose, by Plato, anticipating Laplace, Bartlett and Wong, having foreseen this scenario written on the shadows of his cave, listening to the lyre of Ares, as way to question Aristotle’s hegemony about the definition of life and yet keep his friendship..?
Open to other interpretations..
right: i’m still speechless at the brilliance of your imagination. truly.
thus, my delayed response.
no joke or pun or equivocation of any kind, implied.
your synthetic rereading of all prior messages has been alchemicalized to within the smallest titration.
that you could even perceive that i had engaged my scoliotic proteins in the serpent dance, is, uncanny.
we should all remember, those listening here anyway, that JR IS indeed the master organic logician = philosopher-practitioner par excellance of aesthetics.
and that is also a truth. undeniable in any cave.
i was about to cite a paragraph from vernon vinge’s hugo winning novel, A Deepness in the Sky, 1999, page 84 in the cheap Tor paperback edition with the great, cheesy, scifi illustration cover…
but decided not to even though it would be the perfect response.
it had to do with a clock, located below the ice of a lake, that was designed to last for more than 200 years, wearing out a succession of mechanical gears in sequence, during that time, that of course, scripted according to Aristotle’s Poetics, was just about to die, when some alien race shows up to steal the ice of the lake, causing earthquakes that jogged loosed a bit of debrie that was about to prevent the clock from continuing at the last possible second, which would have meant that the narrative of the next billion galatic years would have gone wrong…
but i won’t, cite that passage.
i’ll only suggest that the moral of the story was – that chaos and chance operations are truly, our only hope, considered on the roloffian geologic scale that underpins everything he’s ever made. we might consider the prefect form of organic logic, the perfect aesthetic analog to it, as, the earthquake.
do instead of citing Vinge’s paragraph, i attach the following illustration from Urge’s [name of the rose] mad, blackened lips from eating the arsenic pages of Aristotle’s lost comedy, found, btw, when i was rummaging last week through the archives of the sunken isle of bohemia, just off pemaquid point where the seas are rising more rapidly than anywhere else in the world: