(1) Abstract (unmetered): In 387 BC, around the age of 40, the renowned Hellenist philosopher Plato (428-348 BC) founded his Academy in the then flourishing city of Athens, only a dozen or so years following the execution of his mentor Socrates, whose purported last words were, “Crito, please remember we owe a cock to Asclepius.” By contrast, around 390 AD, on nearly equal opposite sides of the so-called Christ event, the Neoplatonic philosopher Plutarch of Athens (350-430 AD) would re-establish the Platonic Academy in Athens, at age 40, where the last of the great Late Antique philosophers—Syrianus and Proclus and Damascius—would work in the shadow of Constantinople. The last of the Academies were shut down by the Imperial decree of Justinian in 529 AD. Yet the birth of Parmenides, one of the great mentors of Socrates (and, via osmosis, of Plato), is believed to have taken place somewhere between 540 and 520 BC, on the equal opposite side of the so-called Christ event as Justinian’s decree.
Canto 1.1 (.769) Araqi told Jo Yu-ri, as they sat in the small hallway wide Udon Lab on West Thirty Second, right next to the Martinique, how he had no recollection of re-reading Rings of Saturn whatsoever—in fact the only reason Araqi even realized he’d started re-reading Rings of Saturn at all was a sole blue pen underline strike under the word Rumelia, right on top of page ninety nine that, now re-reading it yet again, Araqi knew all too well he would have never made when he initially read Rings of Saturn, because at that time Araqi barely knew what Rumelia referenced, but upon a second reading, assuming said second reading took place when Araqi believed it did, he was totally balls deep in Rumelia lore. For all of these reasons Araqi believed he’d only began his second reading of Rings of Saturn when he picked up the book again just the other afternoon, but in actuality, according to this particular blue underline on the ninety-ninth page of the novel, it seemed like he’d actually, in fact, recently started a third reading, not a second, but wasn’t it a bit befuddling, a tad disconcerting perhaps that a person could have absolutely no recollection of reading a whole fucking hundred pages of a novel less than five years prior, Araqi thought, a sentiment he expressed to Jo Yu-ri, and she agreed that it did seem egregious, but also perplexing and maybe even, not to be hyperbolic, but a bit ominous? But all this, the entirety of the pair’s specific stream of dialogue was abruptly interrupted when Jo Yu-ri noted Araqi’s visibly concatenating frustration as they were suddenly, violently upstreamed at the bar by some greasy fuck in a cobalt blue soccer jersey—the fact of the matter was the two friends only popped in the spot to begin with to take a quick listen to a particular "xylophone jazz trio" Araqi and Jo Yu-Ri heard playing from the foyer as they walked past on West Thirty Second, Araqi being intrigued by a trio led by xylophone, but once in line at the bar they both slowly realized how loquacious this bartender was with each customer, Araqi’s frustration concatenating with each second he continued to wait for a beer, and now, this customer in a cobalt blue soccer jersey, popped up out of seemingly thin air to upstream them, this customer, who, for his part, had apparently been repeatedly scorned in his quest to get a second beer himself, by none other than this loquacious bartender, who kept continuing on about checking the pipes in the basement, and now this customer in the cobalt blue soccer shirt audaciously cut them both in line to ruthlessly expedite his subsequent beverage. Araqi was abutting an audible complaint but remained unwilling to abandon his just-discovered excitement for this "xylophone jazz" as Jo Yu-ri noted that there was a Vietnamese food truck outside, right on the corner of Sixth and Thirty Second, that she could go get a few egg rolls if they wanted? Araqi wasn’t really in the mood, but this didn’t deter Jo Yu-Ri from ambling outside to see “what was up with their dumplings”, right as the bartender finally attended to Araqi’s pending request for an overpriced quote-unquote Italian style beer, which didn’t taste like Peroni at all, and by the time the two got to a seat the jazz trio finished its first set and began its break, lighting cigarettes and walking back to the bar for their respective, Araqi assumed, free refills.
