Proof
It is the humble opinion of this writer that there is no such thing as Proof, only evidence. In otherwords, one can have a pile of evidence without establishing a single foothold of conclusive proof. Naive as it sounds, it actually is not as base as that: I know I have 5 fingers, I can show them to you, I can wiggle them, but no matter what I am sure there is somewhere locked secretly some sort of evidence to the contrary. A sixth finger that I am metaphysically unaware of, perhaps because, as a human, I simply have not entered into the dimension/realm where it is visible -- one must find new appendages upon leaving this living life. A 27th letter perhaps. Why else is that other side so attractive to most people? There must be some proof over there that we are more than we are while we are alive, either by being made up of more parts or perhaps made up of more senses.
As a kid I used try to draw creatures that were entirely unhuman and never once succeeded in creating anything that had a form other than the usual torso-arms-legs-head. It always seemed oddly limiting, even as a child, that eyes are the only things that see and hands are the only things that feel, etc. I realize being that being six or seven years old has some limitations on one's creative capacities but shouldn't a child, without the burden of the world and it's lame facts, be able to imagine something other than these standard parts? It was something I could never reconcile then and, thinking about it now I realize that I still haven't rectified it with myself. What, though, does this have to do with proof? In a loose way, a lot. This inability to come up with another option might point towards "proof" in most cases. A body is evidence of a life, and the torso-arms-legs-head form is proof of a body. With no other forms to disprove that fact, we have on our hands an air-tight case.
However, if some shy six year old can imagine a new form containing no resemblance of head, legs, arms or torso that would then surely disprove the "body" that we all know and understand, and accept. Proverbially speaking, Seeing would not be Believing any longer if we could do it with something other than our eyes. Or, say, a letter after Z that contains in it a phonetic sound that's been lacking from our established alphabet -- this, too, could disrupt the proof that we have established before with our letters. The creative human's primary function on this earth is just that goal: to find a way to say: "Yes, this has always been the case, however here is an extension of that which now must be accepted alongside the original."
In this regard, let us posit that Proof is an abundance of answers with the absolute lack of questions. This, one can plainly see, is quite a dramatic definition and an inhuman one at that. Humans, by my estimation, are the very embodiment of the word "Question" --- the very fibre of our beings is constantly being constructed upon itself with ever-overlapping question after question after question after question after question after. It is this body of questions that we grow out of us as adults before entering into a suit of answers. A question is to be naked, unknowing, while an answer is like a thick wool sweater and trousers; something to cloak ourselves in. Proof, then, must be tied closely to this razor-thin relationship that always teeters to this side then to that. "I have proof: I saw you with my own eyes. There is absolutely no question about it, I saw you." We are locked tightly in that gripping strangle-hold of questionless belief/proof.
In mathematics we have rules which adhere rigidly to logic, and patterns that have been accepted by man to be exempt from question. 1 always refers to a single thing, this that or otherwise. Plus always means taking a thing and combining it with another thing until you have a mixture, a combination. An equation is a sentence meant to prove a fact with two horizontal bars acting as the word "IS". Applying these basic, naive principals to something illogical, like feelings or love, can oftentimes produce dramatic, albeit snide, results. In keeping with this string of Proof and Math, I find it comforting to write that I recently found a 3 year old poem that I won't ever revise or do anything else with -- I need a place to place it, a soft warm spot for it to live. It was a bad poem, riddled with punctuation and klunky words that don't transport it anywhere, no trumpets and no angels singing from on high. But it was a poem, a bit of evidence. But what to do with it? For all of the dozens of false starts and bad finishes this one little succinct example found its way through the fire and now is orphanned in its current day setting. I've lost all my notes and all of the other drafts, cannot for the life of me remember who or where I was at the time, and finding this single solitary leftover seemed like such a sad decision facing me square in the eyes: (A) Throw it away, forget about it, and stop examining the subject or (B) Place it here, in the ground, where it might grow a bit and branch out into other things.It was, in a way, like one of those stupid old drawings from childhood that failed to approach anything inhuman and this is probably why it was a bad poem --- it latched upon convention the same way in which a child will always draw the form of torso-arms-legs-head. Evidence, perhaps, of one's main struggle in life: the pain of turning a mirror into a window. We sit with a blank page in front of us, stupid at seven or twentytwo, and attempt to imagine something other than the forms and shapes and proofs we are used to, to "create" in the most banal way, yet all we end up doing is mimicing our own selfish selfs. We try to turn this mirror into a windowpane which looks out onto the outside, around us, but all we have is ourselves reflected back at us.
Think of a livingroom full of windows with all the lights on inside but a hushless darkness outside -- windows are now mirrors and you cannot see out past the walls and windows of your room. This is the only place where proof can exist. A poem, a drawing, is supposed to be a rock sent throttling through that mirrored-window until it crashes down into thousands upon thousands of tiny fragmented pieces no longer blocking with reflections.
AfterwordI removed the poem after mulling it over last night --- it is a blight to the reader to try to share such unfinished, condemned little things.
