by Michael Sandler
By modern calculus, his paradoxes have longbeen disproven and, in the arena of slingsand arrows, the refutation appears flawless. But when I look beyond Achilles and the tortoise,considering the distance from me to you,he seems germane, and you endlessly removed.Might he counsel me to meet you half way?And then half way again, and again? My dismayraces when told each journey, like any line,has an infinite number of points, that no disciplinecan encompass them all. I suppose that is our quandary:how to live in our own heads—with oblivion—solitaries…You interrupt and propose we take a leapbeyond measurement. The moment seems ripe,perhaps launched from a sincerity in your smile,and I imagine being airborne, no hesitation, no guile,our inching self-concern completely overtakenand us wondering if the Greek had been mistaken.