For which the intricate Alps are a single nest.
O.D.: Let the lamp affix its beam.
As the pioneer photographer Lewis Carroll understood, when a lens approaches a reflective surface
the surface can fold vision back on itself and make the act of seeing a complement to the state of being seen. Under that condition
(O.S.), there may seem to be seen (for instance) an orbit filled with a globe. In that globe, let there be partially visible below its half-reflective surface an image of a camera held by a man seeing through its lens.
You can visualize that. “Let be be finale of seem,” says the lamplighted poem to you, calling your attention to its flashy display. But of all the elements in that display, the lens, of all things, can’t be used for seeing. As soon as it started sinking into the globe, it stopped being an apparatus to serve you and became part of globe’s image, in globe’s orbit. And there you cannot enter. You are out in the black, where the light of O.D. shines past but not into. Empirical confirmation: you couldn’t see the man in the act of his being until you had read these words instructing you what his reflection was supposed to seem to be.
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,
A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth.
Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
Sources: “Sea Surface Full of Clouds” and “Of Modern Poetry.”
There is no more sound. The archived document doesn’t include sound’s range of frequencies along the electromagnetic spectrum. There is no more color, there is no more third dimension. The document’s way of being seen is only planar. There is no more motion, which means that the document can be seen in only one state of time, without a before or after.
There is still a Czar.
Source: “A captain, Russian navy,” photographed in Newport News, Virginia, during the International Columbian Naval Rendezvous of 1893. Detroit Publishing Company Collection, Library of Congress, http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/det1994010286/PP/. Photoshopped.
The poem by Wallace Stevens is “The Emperor of Ice-Cream.”