February 17 2005

Edge, on edge, edgy, I’m edgy, and a stand-up comic describes his style as edgy because he curses a lot. Is edge some four-letter words, is it life or death? Is edge pushing to extremes? Is edge danger, or a challenge to conventionality? My teeth are on edge, the molars grind, the pulp’s exposed. The paper cut, plain photocopy paper, sharp as a saw blade, though not as strong. The sickle blade, the sharp tongue disclosing truth. Oh no! How corny to upset old ladies at coffee-klatches! Undermine the peace! Yet that’s edgy, son. Your rapier-sharp wit could uncover a gold mine of unchallenged assumptions holding a class of people together like glue. Knock down the jambs, edgy guy! Dress for the role, black leather or tutus. Show yourself.

Things slant a certain way, and other things slant another way. And there’s a point where all lines converge but it’s not easy to find, and the worst thing is the point changes with the movement of the eye. There are an infinite number of these points towards which all lines of perspective converge, and the points lie at an infinite distance. The lines come closer, but they never actually meet. At this point the eye sees the point towards which all converges without the point really being there, so the eye makes up a story to bring the story of the nearly converging lines to a close, and so in the distance the perspective closes: everything is eventually drawn into a vortex.

An infinite number of points in a sphere of an indefinite diameter. Who can say what this diameter is? 20 meters or miles? Does it only extend as far as human sight? How do the short-sighted fit into this picture? How about the farsighted, the ones most likely to see a moose among raspberry bushes and bramble, or the street signs for more than a block away.

But on the other end, do these lines of sight pass or engulf you, extending behind you wherever you’re looking? Do they include you as a wave includes? Or do they simply pass you? You seem to be the tangent they happen to touch before diverging. Everywhere I look objects placed at different angles confuse me, like cinderblocks accidentally dumped in a parking-lot. The little speakers –the tweeters – are pointed in one direction, the woofer in another direction. They each remain in separate, irreconcilable lines of perspective, until I make them point the same way, because for best effect, they have to reach my ears at once.