Jokes About Scale.

Yesterday I was listening to the brilliant podcast The Constant and was reminded of the very very short short story “On Exactitude in Science” by the one and only Jorge Luis Borges. It is one paragraph long and ostensibly about map. Here is the story in it’s entirety:

…In that Empire, the Art of Cartography attained such Perfection that the map of a

single Province occupied the entirety of a City, and the map of the Empire, the entirety

of a Province. In time, those Unconscionable Maps no longer satisfied, and the

Cartographers Guilds struck a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire, and

which coincided point for point with it. The following Generations, who were not so

fond of the Study of Cartography as their Forebears had been, saw that that vast Map

was Useless, and not without some Pitilessness was it, that they delivered it up to the

Inclemencies of Sun and Winters. In the Deserts of the West, still today, there are

Tattered Ruins of that Map, inhabited by Animals and Beggars; in all the Land there is

no other Relic of the Disciplines of Geography.

—Suarez Miranda,Viajes devarones prudentes, Libro IV,Cap. XLV, Lerida, 1658

That’s all folks!

But not really. As with most of Borges, it is very funny, but it is also impossible to realize that at first.

It is really about maps and draws attention to the fact that a map is a simulation, not a fact. So really it is about simulation and how simulation itself is not fact. So really it is kind of about how fact is generally also not fact. So really it is about the unknowableness of all things. So really it is about everything.

Often this story is paired with an excerpt from Lewis Carroll’s Sylvie and Bruno Concluded which makes the funny a little more explicit:

"What a useful thing a pocket-map is!" I remarked.

"That's another thing we've learned from your Nation," said Mein Herr, "map-making. But we've carried it much further than you. What do you consider the largest map that would be really useful?"

"About six inches to the mile."

"Only six inches!" exclaimed Mein Herr. "We very soon got to six yards to the mile. Then we tried a hundred yards to the mile. And then came the grandest idea of all ! We actually made a map of the country, on the scale of a mile to the mile!"

"Have you used it much?" I enquired.

"It has never been spread out, yet," said Mein Herr: "the farmers objected: they said it would cover the whole country, and shut out the sunlight ! So we now use the country itself, as its own map, and I assure you it does nearly as well."

See how funny that is!

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Raktabija.

Raktabija

by james bezerra

        Twenty-six thousand feet above the Arabian Sea at night and the Arabian Sea doesn’t even look like anything. Not an abyss, not a maw, not edgeless obsidian the size of history, or a even metaphor. Not an anything. Just a nothing. This is the thing we always have trouble understanding about the universe, isn’t it? That it is almost entirely empty.

        We have it strapped down to a completely normal gurney in the center of the hold and the gurney is ratcheted down to the metal plates of the floor with those same wide bright polyester webbing straps that they use for any other cargo that would go in here, I suppose. Gets the job done. When we do hit the occasional bippy bit of turbulence, the floor plates rattle a little. The Payload Specialist, hunched by the forward bulkhead and the locked cockpit door, stands up each time, but doesn’t approach it. He hasn’t said a word since we left Djibouti airspace and went feet wet over the Gulf of Adan. He doesn’t like it on his plane.

I suppose saying it is impolite.

Perhaps her would be better. I’m not sure. I’ve never really understood how the Trimurti works. But then I’ve never worked any of the Indian stations. I’ve been operating fairly independently under the authority of the station chief in Nairobi for two years, but I’ve spend most of that time in and around Mogadishu. Al-Shabaab isn’t going to snuff itself out and the Company needed someone to handle intelligence logistics with AMISON.

Busy years these have been.

Made busier now by her. She was not what I needed in my life.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice the Payload Specialist stand up quick, though we aren’t bumping. He points nervously at her.

I look to see one of her four arms beginning to wriggle against the tight gurney straps. I move over to a jumpseat near enough to her so that I can look down into her face. Her skin is very dark, but the station chief in Mumbai told me over a staticy SATCOM line a week ago that it would be; that’s part of her story. When her eyes open they are surprisingly bright. When she sees me above her she stops struggling.

“I have no intention of hurting you,” I say. “If fact, you’re getting an all-expense-paid trip home. You have absolutely no business on the African continent little lady. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth and then you’re going to explain to me why I have satellite photos of you meeting with Hizbul insurgents in the desert outside of Biadoa a week ago. Blink if you understand me.”

She blinks calmly and so I rip the tape off. I always like the ripping-the-tape-off part, it is a sign of good faith but one painful enough that it makes it clear to everybody exactly who is in charge.

She licks her chapped lips slowly with her tongue. I hadn’t noticed before how hollow her cheeks are. How thin and bony each of her arms are.

“Talk,” I tell her.

“Asura,” she says.

I have no fucking clue what that is. “Is that who you were meeting?”

She smiles and its dangerous how big and jagged her teeth are. I glance over to make sure the strap across her forehead is tightened down all the way and locked.

“We used to be such good friends,” she says. She is looking at me. I don’t know if she is talking to me or about me. I think she can sense that because she says, “Asura means great and mighty. Remember, Raktabija?” And then she starts to laugh. She just laughs and laughs and she is laughing at me, this much is clear. If her mouth were less threatening I’d put the tape back on, but as it is, I can just imagine her ripping the tips on my fingers off with just the littlest jerks of her violently gnashing teeth.

I pace toward the end of the cabin and stand down near where the cargo ramp angles upward into its locked position. I take the SAT phone from my pocket and dial up the station chief in Mumbai.

It rings. Then again. The quiet in between the rings is staticy, which ain’t bad considering I’m four and a half miles up moving at six hundred miles an hour above a black ocean that’s as empty as space. Rings again. This is pissing me off because he knows we’re on our way in and is supposed to have his phone in his lap.

Rings again.

Finally he answers, “Bombay-6.”

“I keep telling you that you gotta change that. It’s way too obvious.”

“Bombay-6,” he says again.

“Bombay-6 this is Estafet-1.”

“Code in ...”

“Tandoori delivery.”

“You know,” he says, “that’s borderline racist.”

“You’re supposed to answer when I call.”

“I did. Are you still in-bound?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. We’re on schedule. Look …” I rub the back on my neck and move as far into the back as I can. “I’ve got a question. Does Raktavija mean anything to you? Or asura? She said those words and I’m wondering if there’s something very under-the-radar going on that I haven’t gotten wind of yet out in The Mog. Maybe your extremists hooking up with mine, sharing logistics or intel, maybe …” Through the pop and crackle I can hear him snickering and I don’t like being laughed at this much back-to-back. “What?”

“Man you need to read a book one of these days.”

“How about when we land I shove one up you ass?”

“I would be surprised if you had one with you. Anyway, she’s talking about a fairy tale, man. It’s one of their myths. These guys, the Asura, were like, what do you call ‘em, deities. They used to be good guys but then they got all spun out on their own power and turned into crazy assholes. You following me? One of the biggest badasses was called Raktavija and he’s fighting against the … um … shit, they’re like angels … the Matrikas, I think, yeah. So the Matrikas, they’re attacking this dude full-on but he’s like Bowser or something. Every time they stab him his drops of blood fall to the ground and each one turns into a new little Rakatavija. But the Matrikas, they just keep stabbing and stabbing and not even giving two shits about all the new Rakatavijas running loose all over the goddam place now. It’s just this dumb Hindu story. It doesn’t mean anything. Did you call it in to Langley when you went feet-wet?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Okay. Well I’ll see you in a couple hours. Let me know if she starts talking to you about Little Miss Muffet or is we need to drone strike Noah’s Ark or anything. Bombay-6 out.”

He hangs up so I hang up. I slowly slip the sat phone back into my pocket. Then I turn and I see her standing there in the center of the cabin, three times bigger now, her dark skin hanging loosely on her sharp bones but still somehow shimmering. Her huge jaw has unhinged and she is shoving the flailing Payload Specialist down her dark gullet with one arm and reaching for me with the others.

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Drowning.

So you know how sometimes, after a long day of hiking, all you want to do is go to your local bar and reread Donald Barthelme's short story "Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning"? Because it is one of the most amazing short stories you've ever read but you can't figure out why and it has been haunting you for like six years?

Well that is what I am doing right now and I have got to tell you: I still cannot figure this story out and - not only that! - I still can't figure out why it is so good. But it really really is that good!

At this point I'm a decently educated guy and I'm supposed to understand the mechanics of these things, but I just can not figure out this story.

Let's say I had been trained as an electrical engineer and that this is a blog about electrical engineering and one day I walked into a house and looked at the fusebox and concluded, "I have no fucking idea what is going in here." But the lights are still on.

That is how I feel when I read this story. 

It is seldom that I feel this way. I have been trained to deconstruct the heart and soul out of anything and everything (that may be why I often seem so dead inside to you!), but this story - so far, anyway - really still seems to be made of magic.

Don't worry, I will crack this nut eventually. It may just take awhile.

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The Deconstructed Detective.

The Deconstructed Detective

by james bezerra

The Epilogue: This is not a short story.

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“Thank you,” he says as he breezes into your apartment through the front door and slips across to your kitchen table where he sits down and pours himself a glass of your wine and proceeds to eye your dinner, “for inviting me.”

“I didn’t invite you. Who are ...” you begin to say, but it is useless now because somehow you find that you’ve been inexplicably drawn to the table and that you’ve sat down with him at the table and now he’s offering you a glass of your own wine.

He pours you a glass and exactly half of the volume of the glass is occupied by wine.

“I have news,” he tells you. “I have made a discovery. You have been tricked! You have been the victim of a ruse de guerre. Of a crime. Of a con!”

This is, in fact, news to you.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Let me tell you. But first, how is your wine?”

“It’s fine.”

“Wine is made from dead grapes. Did you know that?”

“I’ve never thought of grapes that way. Of being alive or not.”

“What about raisins?” he asks you.

“What about them?”

“They’re dead grapes too. Do you think of them that way?”

“No,” you say, because you don’t.

“Of course not,” he laughs and howls and smacks your table, “because there’s no such thing as a ‘live raisin’ because then it wouldn’t be a raisin at all.”

You shake your head. “True. Fine. But tell me more about this con.”

“I will,” he shouts at you, “just as soon as you stop talking!”

This has offended you. “Don’t shout in here!” you shout at him, “The walls are very thin and everyone will hear you shouting. Any besides, I wasn’t even talking anymore.”

“But you are.”

“What?”

“Talking now.”

“No you are!”

“I am only talking when I am talking and not while you are accusing me of being the one who is talking. When you accuse me of talking, you are the one who is talking, because you talk in order to accuse me.”

“Fine,” you say - feeling all hrrmgh now, “I will stop.” So you do. You stop talking. You look at him. You wait for him. He is sipping your wine and seems far too content with himself right here in this moment right now. Sitting there happy and content with himself while right now - out there in the world somewhere - someone is conning you. When you can’t stand it anymore you finally say, “Well tell me about this con!”

“Yes,” he says. “I will,” he says, “but first: more wine!” He pours more wine into your glass, but mostly into his, then he asks to you, “Wonderful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about this con job!”

“That. Yes. Well, you have been played you for a fool.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“You are a victim. Don’t be ashamed. It could happen to anyone.”

“I’m not,” you say. “Now how do you know I’m being conned?”

“It is just the most obvious thing really. More wine?”

“No!”

“Have you any snacks? Raisins perhaps?”

“Not again with the raisins. Tell me how I am being conned.”

“First you must think as a con artist would. Are you thinking that way?”

“I don’t know!” you yelp, and it is the only thing you have really been certain of during this whole conversation.

He begins to explain, “For a con to work, the one being conned must not know about it, would you agree?”

“Yes, of course.” You agree because that makes perfect sense.

“So the one being conned does not know that he or she is being conned, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And you did not know that you were the victim of a con, correct?”

“Y ……..,” you hesitate to fully commit yourself because you can see where this is going, “Yes,” you answer finally.

“Well there you have it! Had you known then you would not have been being conned.”

You hesitate much longer now because of the way he worded that last sentence … something about it … as though he had composed it in such a way as to deliberately confuse you. You sip some of your wine. Finally you say, “That does not prove I am being conned.”

“Ah, but it also does not prove that you aren’t. That is just logic my friend.”

You have to admit that you see his point. That you would never know. You have to admit that there is something logically compelling about his argument, but also, somehow, not. But it has enticed you. You must admit that there is something exciting in what he says. Your heart is thumping a little faster. Your skin is flushed just a little pink. You must admit that he certainly has rattled your cage.

“Who is conning me?” you ask him.

He shrugs, “Well, to determine that we must investigate. Luckily, I am a detective.”

“How do we go about investigating it?”

He pours himself more of your wine. He swirls it in his glass. He begins to say, “Wonderful weather we …”

“No!” you shout at him. “Let’s continue investigating.”

“But we have not yet begun our investigation.”

“What? Why not?!”

“Because you have not yet paid my detective’s fee.”

Frustrated, you tromp to your bedroom, take money from your sock drawer. You return and slap the money down on your table. “There is your fee, now let’s begin.”

“My god!” He shouts and points across the room, “What is THAT!”

You turn to look. You see nothing but the corner of the room. You turn back. “What?”

“I thought I saw something,” he says, “I must have been mistaken. Anyway, where were we?”

“Your fee.”

“Yes! My fee. Well as soon as you pay my fee we can begin investigating.”

“I just paid you your fee!” You point down at the table, but when you look down, you see that it is not there.

He chuckles to himself. He sets down the glass he has been drinking your wine out of. “Now be reasonable, if you had paid me my fee already then we would be investigating already and since we aren’t, then you clearly haven’t.”

You can not deny that what he says makes a kind of sense, but also, somehow, doesn’t? You tromp back to your bedroom, hrrmgh-ing all the way. You return with his fee, which you place directly into his hand while making eye contact with him and saying, “Here is your fee which I am paying to you.”

“Thank you,” he says as he takes it, stands, and begins to slip back toward the door.

“Where are you going?!” you holler at him.

“Well to investigate, of course.”

And with that, he is gone. There is nothing left of him but the sound of your front door closing and after a moment that is gone too. You’re not entirely certain what just happened, but you know that something just happened. Outside it is 9 October 2004.

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The Prologue: Did Derrida die, or did he live?

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