Borges and I, Redux

This morning I woke with a pleasant inbox surprise. The following email from a visitor to my website and ultimately my Labyrinth. How sweet these fellow travellers can be when they tumble into our lives.

Hi there,
I don't ordinarily "write" anything that isn't technical and academic, but I spent the last two months reading Borges and it affected me. I found your site/labyrinth and thought I'd share my (very) short piece of prose/verse with you, because I think it's up your alley and I don't know anyone who would actually appreciate it.
If you like it, please let me know and feel free to post it on your site. If you have comments on it, I'd be glad for the feedback. It's a work in progress.
In any event, thanks for just taking a look.
R. J.

I replied:
"A very fine little piece indeed. It really snaps one to attention. Thank you for sharing. And yes, I will share it on my blogspot, recognizing your authorship of course. Can you briefly tell me a little more about yourself? Or should we keep that ambiguous."

He replied thusly....

For public consumption, the forking paths of ambiguity are probably fine... Google will tell anyone that I'm either a physicist, a budding economist, or an 18 yr. old kid w/ a myspace page (or none of the above). The alternative is a short bio, and that really doesn't seem appropriate (as it would be longer than my little contribution ;) )

For you, I'm actually _____ . I study and teach _________ (I have my classes read "Of Exactitude in Science" on day one), and play a lot of chess. I'm glad you enjoyed the writing and thank you for reading. I'd be happy to return the favor some time.
R. J.

Here is the wonderful gem which Mr. Briggs presented to me.

Borges and I, Redux

I know why I am not Borges.

Maybe it’s obvious, but I had to discover it for myself once. Looking at my eyes in the mirror, focusing on the reflection of myself looking in the mirror at the reflection of myself infinitely, going always down and always inward, that’s where I saw him.

Because I saw him in my reflection, I know I am not him.

Because in the moment that the ideal becomes real, it slips out of raw experience into the persistent and necessary imperfection of perception and memory that are all we know.

And the insistent division between them that dances between us, which draws me into writing this and you into reading it, seductively suggests a voice you have not heard that leads you into a labyrinth of swords and knives, gauchos and tigers, mortality and the infinite, the absolute oneness and the constant separation from it, save for the defining moments of life that forever defy description, indelible but usually forgotten, lost forever perhaps because they can exist only in the singular sense of now, outside of what we “know”, beyond the place and time I need to tell you who I think I am not.

But one can never be too sure--better look again.

RJB, 2009


Ennyman's Note: If you wish to read the original Borges and I, here's the place you can check it out. Be sure to follow up with the lustrous Of Exactitude In Science.