I was there when Kramer’s Gorgon rose out of the sea, just as Stanislaw Kramer had predicted. He didn’t call it a gorgon – Kramer’s Gorgon is the name the community gave it in light of the total metaphysical and parapsychological paralysis Stan suffered upon completing his calculations.
My pseudopriest had tried to persuade me from going to see if Stan was right, arguing first that it was impossible on the face of it for an entity to split its spatial dimensionality between two and four, giving the finger to three in the process, and that if it did exist, upon seeing it I would surely suffer the same fate as poor Stan.
I would like to say that I did it for Stan’s sake, to prove him right, but the truth is that I never liked the man, and couldn’t care less about his reputation as a logician. I went out of pure curiosity.
Standing there on the deck of my rented dingy, watching the water sluice endlessly through the moments before and just after its rise, I experienced an epiphany.
Stan was still in the Rothko ward when I came to see him, under the expert care of Philosophical Suicides Lacan and Deleuze. It was a given that he wouldn’t recover, but there was a distinct possibility he might become something else entirely.
“Stan,” I said, bending close to his conceptually moribund form, “I think it’s in love with you.”