Charles Babbage's Black Book parsed via Brian Oliu
originally published in New Ohio Review

In the beginning, there were no voices or melodies, just a slide rule and abacus on a desk wobbling on three legs on a noise floor dusted over with size 12 sneakers, the original size 12 sneakers, before the arch in the tarsus flattens and stretches, causing the numbers to start over from one like exits on the turnpike.  In the beginning, it was mechanical; the grinding of gears within and inside in order to figure out a final truth, a puzzle in white.  My memory of you, before you were submerged for centuries and the like, was always back and to the left of you.  I remember this memory in the third person; back and to the left of my third-grade self back and to the left of your third-grade self; which, in actuality, was your only self to me.  This was the year my retinas failed me, forced to wear an analog mechanism (I had never seen the color of eyes before) so my eyes, like my logic now, were fuzzy.  You were first.  To say you were the first would be preposterous; there have been mechanisms well at work well before you, well before I realized that lights in the sky were actually something, rather than just lights in the sky.  Around the same time, my mother pointed out a harvest moon to me over the purposely aligned trees of a nursery, orange, gigantic, eyes focused to the right, viewing it out of the back, no, front seat of a Ford Thunderbird, no, Buick Regal. There is nothing passive about the gravitational mass.  I made a diagram out of foam core (which floats), illustrating how much an average first grader (myself > 60 lbs > you) would weigh on the various planets in the Milky Way.  This, even today, brings forth memories of chocolate and nougat:  the wrapper picked clean of caramel pus and disposed in a 12-gallon cafeteria trashcan. I would dream about the day when I would board a rocket ship, fly to the moon (I weigh the least there), and see a red digital 16.6 blinking back and you blinking back at him. The project remained on display along the walls of the cafeteria for a week, until someone (it was you) dumped ketchup on his popcorn moon. Pink is a good color to finish fourth, fifth, or sixth place in, and thus an honorable mention was earned, beating out countless baking soda volcanoes and slingshots.  The reward was an ice cream social.  I was not here to understand these things; it was never my purpose to understand any of this; hoping others attracting your attention (on the left) so I would be able to look at your profile, instead of dark hair and headband.  How happy you must have been, knowing that I sat behind you, knowing that I was forever behind you, and there was no need to look back.  It is called counter-clock-wise for a reason.  Undoubtedly there was clockwork before the clock, but you were the clock, the measure of time I measured everything against, despite errors every 19 tropical years; the sun speeding up and slowing down like a faulty turbine due to sponges soaking up your ketchup-colored rust and getting caught in cogs.  You were the first partial penumbral.

I realize that I cannot convince you of anything, being outside of jurisdiction and country; and that I have no room to speak, though I carry around a notebook with drawings of potential tattoos and notes about Zeus’ lament of the mortality of horses.  I cannot convince a woman who speaks elaborate francais in mountain towns while I am guttural elsewhere, drinking elsewhere, taking notes of opticality elsewhere while you hug ample-haired men in photographs of coastlines, demonstrating not only the coastline that eats chocolate and sand, but demonstrating that you are in a position to hug a man I know nothing of, a man in blue, who looks like he might have an accent, francais, non, Russian non plus, garbage Scottish, peut-etre, man in blue.  It looks cold where you are, despite it being the beach, and despite it being a photograph you wish to take.  And you send me a hope and send me a note and send me a 380 page story where you discuss one of our mutual friends in extreme detail:  hair to ass to shoe style, and how she cleans men’s clocks like Windex, (my words not hers) and your travels and your elsewheres.  It sounds like a lovely time, being in Greece without a place to work or war to fight, but things are happening there, happening because they are European and not American, not Rhode Island, not New Jersey, not here nor there, but across an ocean, where people died a long time ago, ghosts who speak different languages that aren’t mine, aren’t yours, and believe you me, those Greeks, they have a word for everything.  I have a word for nothing, but a metaphor for everything, and your onoma is a grandmother’s name, one of old worlds, and I pay no mind to the hypocoristic nature of what I learned to know you as, although I am certain that is what he calls you when talking to friends to demonstrate a possession of your name, you, your pluses and minuses, sapphires and pudding cups, his guard up like a drunken insulter, feardie, a defecator of de facto language, with no appreciation of ethos, pathos, logos, wrapping his arms around your backpacking frame, dishing besitos like a diminutive culus.

Now now, let’s be Pan-Hellenistic about things: you are many, and you are all.  To state that I am surrounded and worshipping many is to state that there are some that do not eat ambrosia and nectar in suburbs on Fridays.  We talk about hypotheticals (hypothetically speaking), an assembling of images at 16-bit pulse code modulation, all at once, rather than in segmented fragments with risk of running out of blocks of time, for our bodies melt, two-by-two:  a return-to-zero.  One of the benefits of leaving room for gaps and channel streams is the ability to add data behind our actions; white dresses on 01-01 that look like a mermaid’s wedding cake, tumbling to the floral patterned floor: a delicate plate that holds the work, myself tentative to slice into, to push                to -- --:-- to 01 00:01.  Yes, a cake for a sirena in my native tongue, seirens, in your native tongue which pressed against my chest in a dream, once, ears filled with beeswax, causing me to thrash against the bindings of kudzu and dive lakeside from a space needle never built.  Instead of nymph execution, instead of fear, we spend ten years assembling a swooping narrative at 30000 rotations per minute, tracks layered, optically optimized without delineation, gapless, not gaspless.  We are unaware of mechanical failure modes:  where Ainner = ½ EI(Wxx(x))2dx displaces Aouter = Pcrit/2 EI(wx(x))2d causes elastic instability, knifeline attacks, permanent structural damage caused by cyclic or fluctuating strains at nominal stresses, testing S-N curve probability, necking, failure, polymerase chain reactions, a thermal shock as the burning stops twisting like a ceiling fan, subject to the wind and the cold it, we, have created, leading to surface fatigue.  We are not concerned with such things.  We finalize; table of contents written out to allow others to read, for others to attempt to track our spinning.  I know that you and I are a rheological anomaly, whirling like turbines, pushing air elsewhere.  We have no need for oxygen where we are going.

Now now, let’s not be Hellenistic about things.  The buffering was typical, save for the spinning hourglass, which served no purpose other than to grow empty and refill.  The ships shattered like lightbulbs on the shores of Avon-by-the-Sea and Neptune, fragmented hollow filler like the space in between your heel and your toe, stepping puncture wounds into glass made from sand.  My shoes are flat footed, Caligula, and are not apt to kick the frames of beach house shanty towns where you bite the shoulders of water nymphs, sucking blood and chlorine.  The only cure for the autumn unemployment, long after tarps are placed over the 9.5 foot marker out of respect for the dead, long after the boardwalk is too cold, and we return to Irish pubs instead of bolted down plastic furniture under awnings, is a trip to islands named after many.  This peninsula living is not for you, and so redux comes in the form of a belated Christmas present to go with the shoes that you never wore and the phone you never dialed.  Erase and rewind to a photograph of you mimicking hand gestures and signals done only by Polynesians and tourists, and since you have never quite understood why the blood of many islands is the equivalent to the blood of one, single, holistic island, you are the latter.  You were always the latter:  second-to-none, yet second-to-all, two fingers needed to hit both rec and play; an index finger and a thumb extended; a way to count to two if the index, middle, and ring were knuckleless.   This is the dualistic nature of things; some ships go west to Maori, some east to Rapa Nui, some worship onychoprion, some wooden sticks.  When birds are above you, in Jersey or in Oahu, you never scream.  When they are next to you, flapping through fabric like an irregular heartbeat, you can’t think of anything except the insects eating underneath feathers.  You grab broom handles and record, and what unfolds and doesn’t unfold from the window netting is swallowed by a modern clamshell and snapped shut.  What I see is 3PG, flat footed, Caligula, and are not apt to kick the frames of beach house shanty towns where you bite the shoulders of water nymphs, sucking blood and chlorine.  A belated Christmas present to go with the shoes that you never wore and the phone you never called me on.  MOV, flat footed, Caligula, and are not apt to kick the frames of beach house shanty towns where you bite the shoulders of water nymphs, sucking blood and chlorine, NSV a belated Christmas present to go with the shoes that you never wore and the phone you never called me on.  Your new Lord God Bird Boy is a blur, resolution expanded, wilted, then stretched, entire frames dropped from view, from existence, as a white blur perceived to be a gull, a hawk, aumakua, appears as a flash in the corner of my screen, then the middle, then nowhere. 

I now realize that I cannot convince you of anything, being apart from the jurisdiction and of the country; and that I do not have any part to speak, although I carry around a book with diagrams of potential tattooings and the notes about Zeus regret of the mortality of the horses. I cannot convince a woman more who speaks about French refined in towns of mountain while I am guttural elsewhere, drinking elsewhere, taking notes of opticality elsewhere while you étreignez the men sufficient-of a hair in photographs of the littorals, showing not only the littoral which eats the chocolate and sand, but showing that you are in measurement for étreindre a man whom I know nothing of, a man in the blue, which looks at as it could have an accent, of French, not, Russian not, Scottish of refuse, perhaps, man in blue. It seems cold where you are, in spite of him being the beach, and in spite of it being a photograph you wish to take. And you send a hope to me and send a note to me and send a history of 380 pages to me where you discuss one of our mutual friends in detail extreme: hair with the ass to fit the model, and how it cleans the clocks of the men like Windex, (my words not his) and your voyages and your elsewheres. That resembles good weather, being in Greece without place to work or war to be fought, but the things occur there, to occur because they are European and nonAmerican, not island of Rhode, not Jersey New, not here nor there, but through an ocean, where people died a long time ago, the phantoms which speak the various languages which is not with me, are not with you, and believe you I, these Greeks, they have a word for all. I have word for nothing, but metaphor for all, and your onoma is name of grandmother, one of old worlds, and I pay no spirit with nature hypocoristic of what I have learned to know you like, although I would be certain that that is to say what it calls you while speaking to the friends to show a possession of your name, you, your more and washout, sapphires and cups of pudding.  His guard increases as a drunken insult, feardie, a defecator of fact language, with no philosophy recognition, the pathetic one, the logo, packing its arms around your hike framework, serve besitos as a tiny culus.