Mathematics and Myths

In itself (Mathematics), it has taken all possible precautions against interpretation: no parasitical signification can worm itself into it. Mathematical language is a finished language.

Myth on the contrary, is a language that does not want to die: it wrests from the meanings which give it its sustenance an insidious, degraded survival, it provokes in them an artificial reprieve from which it settles comfortably, it turns them into speaking corpses.

-Barthes

Barthes from Mythologies- Myth Today (1957)

The meaning is always there to present the form: the form is always there to outdistance the meaning. And there is never any contradiction, conflict, or split between the meaning and form: they are never at the same place. In the same way, if I am in a car and I look at the scenery through the window, I can at will, focus on the scenery or on the window pane. At one moment, I grasp the presence of the glass and the distance of the landscape; at another,on the contrary, the transparence of the glass and the depth of the landscape; but the result of this alternation is constant:

the glass is at once present and empty to me, and the landscape is unreal and full.

Big Game- David Wagoner

You're feeling pleased with yourself, perhaps even
  Beside yourself as you approach slowly
The big game animal you've shot
  And think is dead. It doesn't move. It's no longer
Far away, out of reach, something painful
  Beautiful and dangerous that wasn't yours
But seemed what you've always wanted
  To be close to. Now you have it, have it right here
Holding still for you. Listen now. Listen.
  Look carefully: if its eyes are wide open
Like yours, if they're fixed and glassy, if the flies
  Have already come to call, then you're home
More or less free and you've done more
   Or less what you thought you'd aimed to do
When you came here with a gun,
  And this is no longer animated body
Is all yours now, a prize to be taken away
  And eaten or otherwise disposed of, to be mounted
And preserved for the benefit of other eyes
  And ears for the rest of your hunting life. But
          remember
As you bend near this creature, smiling,
  Already rehearsing the modest parts you'll play
At your comfortable fireside in the glow
  Of before-and-after-dinner stories, look out
For yourself (it may already be too late,
  But look out anyway) because if its eyelids
Are shut, and if you can't see the light
  Between them, it's still alive. It may be trying
Hard to remain itself, a skill much harder
  To learn than you might imagine, and if your hard
Should touch what's left of it anywhere at all,
  It may suddenly show you something you've neglected
To learn in time: the surprisingly quick, inhuman,
  Deadly, unmanly art of self-defense.

In a Landfill- David Wagoner

Our city fathers and mothers picked this place
To file and forget whatever they don't want
Or can't stand or have no other idea
What to do with. They have it all hauled here
To be mashed and leveled and seeded by the wind
And left to percolate and brew
And settle to what they hope looks natural.

Because I feel obliged to contribute something
And not just stand here, I sit down. And at once,
The old horizon is raked over
By bluegrass and tassels of wild oats and the crowned heads
Of Queen Anne's lace and other tough survivors
And aimless pioneers. Biologists say
You're seldom more than six feet from an ant,

And here they come to analyze my shoes
And the rest of me, which is more than I can do.
The ants and weeds and I have something in common:
We can cast shadows. We can metabolize
For a while. We can reflect daylight just as long
As it lasts. We can persist in the folly of being
Ourselves. We can add and multiply and divide.

We can disobey the laws of vagrancy,
Assembly, and trespass. We can feel inclined
To put our six-or-less, more-or-less best feet
Forward, backward, or deeper into the earth
Briefly before we lie down on our jobs,
Before we decide to lower our expectations
And join the rest, making ourselves scarce.

Date with a Muse- David Wagoner

I smile across the intimate table
 Where the waiter had laid the silver,
   The ingeniously folded napkins,
And the gleaming crystal,
  Where I've set the Tiffany gift-box
    To be opened later. She regards me
Remotely with poise
 Of the queen of a distant country
   Expecting something bizarre
From a savage suitor. I tell her
 She is beautiful. She mutters, That goes
   Without saying. I ask her
Over the open menu whether
 Anything, anything at all tonight
   Seems tempting, and the dim
Romantic light grows dimmer
 As she answers listlessly
    She isn't hungry. Listen then
For a moment please this music,
 I whisper. Shall we dance?
    She smiles vaguely and murmurs,
No thank you, not this evening,
 And the space between us yawns
   As wide as the empty dance floor.