Viaduct (Eclogue 6)

for Jon G.

There is a man

who walks across

the viaduct.

His shadow cast,

another self,

from the street lamps

at this time

when it is late enough—

but not too late.

In the distance,

church bells,

trains. While below,

the cars,

much in the way

of the river:

different, but not

different enough.

In this light enough,

his shadow

now extends

onto the highway

past the point

we can no longer

see. Listen to

the bells,

the trains,

the cars,

but hear most

the footsteps.

It is brave to be afoot.

John K., 11/9/2009, 10:06-10:18 PM

Alcuin at Aa[X]en: Part IV

IV.

The scientific method as formulated by Descartes

has its origins, obviously, in orthopraxy

and has everything to do with God.

Charlemagne's prescribed sequence of motion

makes the fact quite plain: arriving at truth

is a ritual. Charlemagne would unsheathe his sword,

which heavy-hilted blade he was never without,

consider the reflection of the lambent flames

on the metal for awhile, and gently lay it across

his bureau on top of his loosely organized stack

of memos, invoices, and manuscripts.

The emptied sheath still girded to his hip,

Charlemagne would then pace in silence for,

as Alcuin determined, exactly 51 steps.

Yes, Alcuin was a compulsive hoarder of

figures, and is said to have first discovered

(for himself, not for all mankind, to be sure)

that 51, despite its looks, is not a prime number.

Alcuin could easily discern Charlemagne's affinity

for the number 3...but 17? This would cause

Alcuin to lose some sleep.

To have a knack for numbers, as we now know,

is to have a knack for God, which knacks

Alcuin had. He kept precise, nay, fastidious

tallies of the local sports teams:

wins, losses, ties, of course, but many other

hieroglyphic statistics such as arrow-to-target ratios

and lance/visor averages. In this, Alcuin anticipated

two of the most important inventions since the death of Christ:

baseball record-keeping and algebra.

Muslim scholars, not so incidentally, were way ahead

of the Europeans on the latter with al-jabr—

"the mending of broken bones," and thus "reunion,"

which allowed for the synthesis

of the rational and the irrational. Through numbers,

surely, but more profoundly, in some great theophanic

insight, through a way of seeing God.

At this point, Charlemagne: Let us retire to the stable.

The King re-sheathed his sword; Alcuin tucked parchments

under his arm. And both were the same gestures.

On their way, the pair picked up a chaliced cocktail to-go,

and, for the sake of the good form, would humor

a servant to escort them through a labyrinthine route,

a different servant and thus a different route each time,

up newel stairs through the curtain walls to the allure,

under which gemmed firmament all men

must disrobe the various fashions and accessories

of disagreement to stand, wonderstruck, as one

to pledge their allegiance to the stars.

Here, Charlemagne would place his drink

in an ope of the crenellations and remove his sword

once more. Then to enact an intricate and elegant

folk dance of swordwork.

There was a Northumbrian rhythm to it, which warmed

Alcuin with nostalgia, though he couldn't fathom

where Charlemagne picked it up so fluently:

accents, as they say, are the greatest

challenge in acquired multilingualism.

So Alcuin watched and could only speculate what

Charlemagne thought each time he swung

the blade in arcs that doubled the man's height;

according to his face, Alcuin concluded,

widows and orphans.

After some time, enough time for some star

to travel some distance larger than any man

could ever hope to count, a heavy-breathed

Charlemagne returned his broadsword

and, no louder than in his voice of conversation,

called for a servant. A different one, of course, quickly

arrived to lead the two down the far curtain

to the stable at the end of the stables,

whose rafters the King had his court architect

adjust to accommodate Abu l'-Abbas:

the Emperor's beloved elephant,

in whose presence Charlemagne would begin

the dance of the tongue, to utter

the language of the puzzle.

Alcuin at Aa[X]en: Part III

III.

Puzzles. Contradictions.

Here we have this churl:

Rex Francorum, Rex Langobardoum, Imperator Romanorum—

for the love of God—who grudgingly slipped into

the chlamys only at the entreaty of Hadrian the Pope.

Never even went back to Rome after the coronation realpolitik.

This man, given to otter skins and tireless activism for

Liberal Arts education. Measuring up to, as disinterment

by the Victorian scientists evaluated, 6.2416 repeating

feet. This man, downright draconian when it came to

the conquest and conversion of the polytheists,

not to mention all the credal manipulations with the

Filoque, the spleenfulness over iconoclasm and the like.

We're discussing some serious standardization:

yes, there were the stable systems of manufacture

along with, for the times, impressive quality control.

But in his dim, hand-cramped scriptoria

we have the birth of the miniscule. And punctuation.

Finally a readable Benedictine rule.

This man who chafes at imperial coronation fancies

himself an administrator. Of all things. In the age

of high Christology, Alcuin settles into

Charlemagne's crude wooden throne.

There was the dance. More like orthopraxy,

if we are to do our due diligence in the matter.

Alcuin did his best to remain modest about it, though,

and I think we can comfortably say he was

successful—even gracious—in his humility.

And had he lived to see Middle English

and Old French he would have been broadly pleased

with the etymology of the word. Humilis,

"on the ground," from humus, "earth." Primary

meanings indicate semantic exactitude with

terra, but, of course, Alcuin understood

(the quickest glance at his palimpsests will assuage

your doubts on this one) that words do not work

this way. Charlemagne right around this time

would take the first steps of his dance,

the dance given to respectful observance of

the holy mysteries of the puzzle.

Yes, technically Alcuin had authored the puzzle:

as Charlemagne saw it was indeed the hand

of Alcuin that made the puzzle appear on the parchment,

but it was the mind of God that made the puzzle appear

in Alcuin's hand. Alcuin didn't disagree. In fact

couldn't, as there was not even available to him

in their day a theory of pure authorial intentionality,

and, if there was, it would have been impious

and therefore head-on heresy. But, in his characteristic

being-ahead-of-his-time, there was likely the smallest

mustard seed in his head about a theologically sound

framework for a trinity of God, man, and imagination

(with, and the etymology works beautifully here,

imagination serving as the Holy Ghost)

that wouldn't have toppled Aristotle's scaffolding

of the first mover, which, incidentally,

is the beginning of physics. Alcuin knew this,

even if he didn't have a word for it: that to be

a theologian is to be a scientist.