Eric Lunde
SOMNIUM
SEASON 1: WHAT CANNOT BE KNOWN
An Introductory Note
EPISODE #38
Eric Lunde is a practicing Pyrrhonist living in Minneapolis, MN USA. He has worked as a noise artist, a painter, poet, critic and parking lot attendant in chicago.
SEASON 1: WHAT CANNOT BE KNOWN
An Introductory Note
Not necessarily based on but coordinating with the book Somnium, seu opus posthumum De astronomia lunari by Johannes Kepler. Written in Latin in 1608, it purports to present a detailed imaginative description of how the Earth might look when viewed from the Moon. That’s where any resemblance ends.
This Somnium presents a detailed description of how the earth might look from sleep. How life might look from other perspectives. a cosmogony of dreamed proofs through which the author gets to occupy events of different perspectives from Borges and Kepler to film noir, science fiction, and prosperity gospel.
Somnium is composed of 137 episodes of 137 words (think physics not psychics....), the significance being that in physics, 137 was once believed to be the exact value of the fine-structure constant, a number which, according to Leon Lederman, "shows up naked all over the place.”
favor low down human ain’t that some religiously icu fight that feeling red ruby da sleeze memory land beso fragil que vuelvas it matters to her I wrote that book trance Yandel 150 painting pictures everything I love ch y la pizza man made a bar waffle house Mjor Que Yo In ha mood igualito a mi apa moonlight forever you me & whiskey sunrise mathematical disrespect ceilings shake sumn people never felt so alone happy wreckage curtains what it is (block boy) peaches private landing LETS DO IT AGAIN waffle bar a made man pizza la y ch love I everything pictures painting 150 Yandel trance book that wrote I her to matters it vuelvas que fragil beso land memory sleeze da ruby red feeling that fight icu religiously some that ain’t human down low favor
EPISODE #39
I might go back and reinvent god as a god that doesn’t matter. I mean, no. I mean I know you expect a highly engaged god that observes us that we observe. I don’t think we should expect this. As a god that cares enough to not observe his creation, in indifference and impartiality.
Much like Schrödinger’s cat, he would not open the box to observe us because s/he wouldn’t want to disturb our situation. S/he would be okay knowing that unobserved we are both dead and alive
Now the same goes for us observing god, that we should be good with not observing him because we would alter the circumstances. God, unobserved, is both dead and alive. Because s/he obeys quantum “laws”. I might make a case for a god that doesn’t care to be observed
EPISODE #44
The number shows up naked all over the place put a sign in me office with the number to remind just me how much we do not know not only was it the inverse of the fine-structure constant, but was also related to the probability that an electron will emit or absorb a photon and here it comes a focused light of fine threads a corona in black darts threatening range STAY THE COURSE ledger jack??? How was therapy its always the same dubious inquiry tedious looking into your being one over and over through time a partial eclipse man shaped groove in the pavement a follicle a smear of corpuscles IT IS GHOST O’CLOCK I was there and then again where breathing isn’t and gun is I can’t breathe and then again a refrain a chorus
EPISODE #83
The world is our ash tray buttercup larvae swan picture this in raincoats and fingernail polish holding the business end of a cigarette marsh holding jeweled patterns in the metric flotilla of our days aligned with sugar membranes breaking off in edible quatrains enough to slow the advance of any sidewalk electors who might bite the gravel to broker favors and hold the jury to its meat and cleave the worry of enacting bedshowers when holed stones would rope through bind our various is together into one lumpy was an amalgamation of pained feats and wrinkled jibes sing out the wedge with rumors and windows plights of honor are honed in the cornet solo played for us on the streets akimbo to our lying fortresses all world all holograms all taken to the larvae world we encumber
EPISODE #115
Leaves don’t fall from trees they flee the white of winter Defection of snow Think of a black hole, it invites, it welcomes everything nothing can escape its gravitational pull. Light cannot escape and is pulled into it I’M A SHEET OF PAPER DEFYING INK So what would be the opposite? A white0 hole camber whereas light escapes, it repels everything, it attracts nothing, it reflects deflects rejects all light The color of erasure white0 IS WHERE COLOR GOES TO DIE white0 is the color of Suicide The camouflage of winter And winter is the season of erasure trees half disappeared partial Rejection of white0 hole camber force the unwelcoming vapor of white0 white0 outlines but does not fill No light will enter it no light will not enter it no white0 IS WHERE COLOR GOES TO DIE
EPISODE #119
Chaos agent red-faced, manic desperation likely so unnerved there nearing southern climbs ledgend above the folds folded in handing a problem child desperate for attention accelerant and matches that’s some peculiar gray area I cant fit the black piece into just a chunk of hubris a black plaything non -descript is evil when it is dull point bored holed up in a snare gunned through marching we take orders from a sponge like that chaos is a tremor a rolling reverberation but not in your hands you move the nerve to meter but not back again chaos is unfunneled unchanneled swim and drown but not in your hands you strap it down with captions and interviews what we are afraid of and what we should be afraid of not chaos no don’t make me afraid of chaos
EPISODE #127
We all belong to the empire all us stray dogs and companions but not the suckling pigs of us that’s a digression that comes once in a generation frenzied innumerable stray dogs that from a long way off look like flies we could keep the clearing close or order them staggered and maleficent not theses starving dogs none of that will work all taxonomies have some hand in the cosmology even the smell of pee on any rose counts for something what is the picture you are painting of yourself from the side in relief etched into the crowd of particles that fill the horizon from there you are drawn with a very fine camelhair brush but from here from a long way off you all look like flies flies drawn with a very fine camelhair brush
I might go back and reinvent god as a god that doesn’t matter. I mean, no. I mean I know you expect a highly engaged god that observes us that we observe. I don’t think we should expect this. As a god that cares enough to not observe his creation, in indifference and impartiality.
Much like Schrödinger’s cat, he would not open the box to observe us because s/he wouldn’t want to disturb our situation. S/he would be okay knowing that unobserved we are both dead and alive
Now the same goes for us observing god, that we should be good with not observing him because we would alter the circumstances. God, unobserved, is both dead and alive. Because s/he obeys quantum “laws”. I might make a case for a god that doesn’t care to be observed
The number shows up naked all over the place put a sign in me office with the number to remind just me how much we do not know not only was it the inverse of the fine-structure constant, but was also related to the probability that an electron will emit or absorb a photon and here it comes a focused light of fine threads a corona in black darts threatening range STAY THE COURSE ledger jack??? How was therapy its always the same dubious inquiry tedious looking into your being one over and over through time a partial eclipse man shaped groove in the pavement a follicle a smear of corpuscles IT IS GHOST O’CLOCK I was there and then again where breathing isn’t and gun is I can’t breathe and then again a refrain a chorus
The world is our ash tray buttercup larvae swan picture this in raincoats and fingernail polish holding the business end of a cigarette marsh holding jeweled patterns in the metric flotilla of our days aligned with sugar membranes breaking off in edible quatrains enough to slow the advance of any sidewalk electors who might bite the gravel to broker favors and hold the jury to its meat and cleave the worry of enacting bedshowers when holed stones would rope through bind our various is together into one lumpy was an amalgamation of pained feats and wrinkled jibes sing out the wedge with rumors and windows plights of honor are honed in the cornet solo played for us on the streets akimbo to our lying fortresses all world all holograms all taken to the larvae world we encumber
Leaves don’t fall from trees they flee the white of winter Defection of snow Think of a black hole, it invites, it welcomes everything nothing can escape its gravitational pull. Light cannot escape and is pulled into it I’M A SHEET OF PAPER DEFYING INK So what would be the opposite? A white0 hole camber whereas light escapes, it repels everything, it attracts nothing, it reflects deflects rejects all light The color of erasure white0 IS WHERE COLOR GOES TO DIE white0 is the color of Suicide The camouflage of winter And winter is the season of erasure trees half disappeared partial Rejection of white0 hole camber force the unwelcoming vapor of white0 white0 outlines but does not fill No light will enter it no light will not enter it no white0 IS WHERE COLOR GOES TO DIE
Chaos agent red-faced, manic desperation likely so unnerved there nearing southern climbs ledgend above the folds folded in handing a problem child desperate for attention accelerant and matches that’s some peculiar gray area I cant fit the black piece into just a chunk of hubris a black plaything non -descript is evil when it is dull point bored holed up in a snare gunned through marching we take orders from a sponge like that chaos is a tremor a rolling reverberation but not in your hands you move the nerve to meter but not back again chaos is unfunneled unchanneled swim and drown but not in your hands you strap it down with captions and interviews what we are afraid of and what we should be afraid of not chaos no don’t make me afraid of chaos
We all belong to the empire all us stray dogs and companions but not the suckling pigs of us that’s a digression that comes once in a generation frenzied innumerable stray dogs that from a long way off look like flies we could keep the clearing close or order them staggered and maleficent not theses starving dogs none of that will work all taxonomies have some hand in the cosmology even the smell of pee on any rose counts for something what is the picture you are painting of yourself from the side in relief etched into the crowd of particles that fill the horizon from there you are drawn with a very fine camelhair brush but from here from a long way off you all look like flies flies drawn with a very fine camelhair brush
Eric Lunde is a practicing Pyrrhonist living in Minneapolis, MN USA. He has worked as a noise artist, a painter, poet, critic and parking lot attendant in chicago.
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