Borges, “Of Exactitude in Science”

Posted on September 13, 2011 by David Gürçay-Morris

Of Exactitude in Science

…In that Empire, the craft of Cartography attained such Perfection that the Map of a Single province covered the space of an entire City, and the Map of the Empire itself an entire Province. In the course of Time, these Extensive maps were found somehow wanting, and so the College of Cartographers evolved a Map of the Empire that was of the same Scale as the Empire and that coincided with it point for point. Less attentive to the Study of Cartography, succeeding Generations came to judge a map of such Magnitude cumbersome, and, not without Irreverence, they abandoned it to the Rigours of sun and Rain. In the western Deserts, tattered Fragments of the Map are still to be found, Sheltering an occasional Beast or beggar; in the whole Nation, no other relic is left of the Discipline of Geography.

—From Travels of Praiseworthy Men (1658) by J. A. Suarez Miranda

The piece was written by Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares. English translation quoted from J. L. Borges, A Universal History of Infamy, Penguin Books, London, 1975.

My Great Great Great Great Grandfather Reverend Phillip Porter   Date: [unknown] [unknown]
Location: [unknown]
Surname/tag: PORTER

Profile manager: Lance Martin  [send private message]

This page has been accessed 312 times.

Lucy Ayers Gunthorpe, transcriber16 Oct. 2005

The first application was made to the Sate of South Carolina in 1831:

To the Honorable Senate and Members of the House of Representatives of the State of South Carolina, The Humble petition of Phillip Porter showeth that he is now in the 67 or 68 year or years of his age, has reared a large family and they have all become of age and doing for their selves and he has no family except himself and his wife and the petitioner showeth that he has for many years of his life been an ailing man and not able to accumulate property. He is now old and not able to work and without help from the State of South Carolina where he has rendered great service must of course soon become in a suffering situation or be dependent to the charity of his friends and as this Petitioner has been a faithful Soldier of the revolutionary struggle and all his aid was rendered in that glorious struggle for liberty, he hopes you take his petition in consideration and grant him a pension as is allowed to others in similar circumstances. The petitioner showeth that he was born in North Carolina, Guilford County and removed to South Carolina in the time of the war and settled in Abbeville Dist. in this State and there resided during the war and this petitioner showeth that he was early in our army when he came to the State. The first tour was a Volunteer Tour against the Indians under Col. Killgore and then home and then served three months longer under Capt. Roseman scouring the frontier and was stationed at NORRODS BLOCK House in Abbeville where he served a dangerous tour of duty in guarding and providing provisions for the benefit of the Fort and after he served his tour at that place he then volunteered under Capt. Robert Maxwell in the horse service for another tour in the said service scouring and ranging the frontier where he, your petitioner under went many hard trials and many dangers. Your petitioner showeth that he was ready at every beck and call of Capt. Robert Maxwell about the close of the glorious struggle for liberty to turn out and scour the frontiers and beat back the Indians in which service he often acted as a spy and if your honorable body shall hear the prayers of your petitioner he as in duty bound will ever pray---

The State of South Carolina, Pickens District: Personally came before me the subscribing Justice for the said District and appeared Phillip Porter, the above Petitioner and made oath in due form of law and sayeth on his oath that all the facts set forth in the above Petition is just and true. Sworn to and subscribed to this 18th day of November 1831 before me Bailey Barton, JQ. Signed: Philip Porter

The following is a just and true schedule of the Property of Phillip Porter.......439 acres poor land, part Mountains ....given in to Tax Collector last quartly...13 head cattle...A stock of hogs supposed 30 head or upward,some of them being shy I can't exactly say...2 head of horse beast, not valuable...6 or 7 head of sheep and a few farming tools andthe necessary house hold and kitchen furniture for a small family... no article of fine quality....as to cabinet work and 2 beds furniture.

The State of South Carolina, Pickens District: Before me the Subscribing Justice, Personally came and appeared Phillip Porter and made oath the written is a Just and True schedule of all his effects and says on his oath that he has not dispossessed himself of any property in order to obtain a pension from the State. Sworn to this 18 day Nov. 1831 before me Bailey Barton, JQ. Signed: Philip Porter.

I, Bailey Barton one of the Justices of the Quorum for the said District do certify that I have been long acquainted with Phillip Porter and can say he is a man of just character and that all faith and credit should be given to his affidavits as such. Signed: Bailey Barton, JQ.

The State of South Carolina, Pickens District: Before me the subscribing Justice of Peace for the said District, personally came and appeared JOSEPH CHAPMAN and took oath in due form of law and says on his oath that he knew Phillip Porter to be a faithful soldier in the Revolutionary War and that he frequently saw him doing duty and that he served with him under Capt. Maxwell and Roseman and says he knew Phillip Porter through the whole struggle and he was faithful to do his duty when ever called on. Sworn to and subscribed this 18th day of Nov. 1831 before me. Signed: Joseph Chapman with his (X) mark.

The State of South Carolina, Pickens District: I, Bailey Barton one of the Justices of Quorum for the said District do certify that I am well acquainted with Joseph Chapman whose name is above subscribed and that he is entitled to full faith and credit in my opinion. Signed: Baily Barton, JQ.

DECLARATION: In order to obtain the benefit of the act of Congress of the 7th of June 1832......State of South Carolina, Pickens District: Personally appeared on this 7th day of October 1834 before the Honorable Lt. P. Butler one of the associate Judges of the Said State in open court at Pickens Court House, Phillip Porter, a resident of the District aforesaid aged seventy one years, who being duly sworn according to law doth on his oath make the following declaration in order to obtain the benefit of the pension made by the act of Congress passed June 7th 1832, that he entered the service of the United States in 1781 well as he recollects as he was then only about seventeen years of age in Ninety Six District, now Abbeville, S. C. as a drafted militia man in the company of Capt. Samuel Roseman and Col. Killgore's Regiment went one tour after the Cherokee Indians but before this My Father, Hugh Porter was taken prisoner by the British and I was exchanged for him and kept as a prisoner of war six months at New Bern, North Carolina, since at that time in Guilford County of the State and removed from hence to the District of 96 where I entered the service for 6 months under the said Capt. Roseman and Col. Killgore.

He is positive at this time he served as scouts and in the service six months. He then volunteered as in the Cavalry under Capt. Maxwell was ready to start with him on an expedition when he was assigned by the Captain to stay and provide for the fort. He was then engaged in procuring provisions and guarding the said fort called Norrod's Fort and stood ready to be called out at any time ____?______ 9 months, but says positively he was in the service 8 months at this time. This was in the year 1779 or1780. He was a minute man under Capt. Maxwell till the close of the war and was always ready to reconnoiter and fight the Cherokee Indians on the frontier.

He hereby relinquishes every other claim to a pension or an annuity except the present and he declares his name is not on the pension rolls of any agency or in any State and he answers this interrogatories required by the War Department to be part of the Court as follows: 1st: He was born in Guilford County North Carolina on the first day of July 1763, he believes having no family register present 2nd: He has no family register but his Father had one in Abbeville, SC. 3rd: He lived in Guilford N. C. when exchanged to the British for his Father when he was 10 year old. His Father then moved after his return to Abbeville, SC where he entered the service under Capt. Roseman Col. Killgore where he continued to live till about the year 1784 or 1785 when he removed to Pendleton District - now Pickens, where he has remained ever since and now lives. 4th: He was while in Abbeville always a volunteer and minute man. 5th: He was with General Pickens and Anderson and frequently saw them during the war. 6th: He never got a written discharge. 7th: He does not know any man who would dispute his word but is well acquainted with Bailey Barton, Esquire, Col. Benjamin Hagood, Major Keith, the Clerk of the Court, William D. Sloan, the Sheriff of this District. He would appeal with confidence to all whom he is known at this late period being measurably illiterate he can not so correctly recollect the particular dates as his memory is much impaired by old age and infirmaties. Signed: Philipporter (typed as written).Sworn and duly in open court the day and year aforesaid before William L. Keith C. C. Presiding Judge.I, William L. Keith, Clerk of the Court of the District of Pickens, S. C. do hereby certify that the foregoing contains the original proceedings of the said Court in the matter of the application of Phillip Porter for a pension.In the testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal of Office this the 7th day of October 1834 and in the fifty-ninth year of American Independence. Signed: William L. Keith, Clerk of Court for Pickens District.

We, Robert Gains, a Clergyman residing in the Dist. of Pickens and Bailey Barton residing in the same hereby certify that we are well acquainted with Phillip Porter, who has subscribed and sworn to the above declaration. We believe him to be seventy one years of age as he states that he is upright and believed in the neighborhood where he resides to have been a soldier of the revolution, and that we concur that opinion sworn and subscribed the day year aforesaid in open court..before William L. Keith, C.C.Signed: Robert GainesSigned: Baily Barton

And the said Court do hereby declare their opinion after the investigation of the matter and after putting the interrogatories prescribed by the War Department that the above named applicant was a Revolutionary Soldier and served as he states and the Court further certifies that it appears to them that Robert Gaines _____, who has signed the preceding certificate is a clergyman resident in Pickens District and that Bailey Barton, who has also signed is a resident in the same District of Pickens and is a credible person and that their statement is entitled to credit.Signed: A. P. Butler, Presiding Judge.

A copy of a letter from the DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR, BUREAU OF PENSIONS, RECORD DIVISION, Washington, DC was included with the request for a copy of Philip Porter's pension application and declaration. It is a form (3-525) letter, "in reply to your request for a statement of the military history of PHILIP PORTER." An outline of his service as found in his application was entered in the appropriate spaces, with the final notation of, "....WAS REJECTED ON THE GROUND OF UNOFFICIAL PROOF OF THE ALLEGED SERVICE." POWER OF ATTORNEY: Know all men by these present that I, James Porter of Pickens District and State of South Carolina and one of the children and legal representatives of Phillip Porter, a Revolutionary Soldier and Mary Porter, his wife who is now deceased, do hereby irrevocably constitute and appoint John L. Neely of Washington District of Columbia my true and lawful attorney for me and in my name to examine into and prosecute any claim that may be due or found to be due the children and legal representatives of Phillip Porter and Mary Porter in virtue of said Phillip Porter's service in the Revolutionary War and the several acts and resolutions of Congress relative thereto and that might have accrued to either of the said parties and not drawn during their lifetime and now due to their legal representatives and to receive the certificate of Pension etc. when issued by the Department. Thereby confirming whatsoever my said attorney can do or cause to be legally done either in person or by substitution in the prosecution of said claim except drawing money on the said claim. I, revoking any other authority I may have given to any other person or persons in this premise whatsoever. In witness whereof I have hereto set my hand and seal this 5th day of September 1853. Signed: James Porter (Seal) Signed in the presence of L. B. JOHNSON (his signature)(nb) Elizabeth struck out Mary inserted before signature.

State of South Carolina, Pickens District: On this fifth day of September in the year 1853, personally appeared before me, James Porter and acknowledged the written Power of Attorney to be his act and deed. Signed: J. W. NORRIS, JR Notary Public Ex. Off. Magistrate for Pickens District, SC.State of South Carolina, Pickens District: I, William L. Keith Clerk of the Court of General Sessions and Common Pleas for Pickens District in the State aforesaid, do hereby certify that J. W. Norris, Jr., Esqr. before whom the preceding acknowledged agreement was made (as appears by his name in his own handwriting attesting) was at the date thereof a Notary Public and Ex Officio Magistrate for the District aforesaid who had been duly appointed and qualified and had signed the roll kept according to law in my office... (end of page).

Transcriber’s note: There was an inconsistency in the spelling of Philip's name throughout the documents. It is interesting to note that Philip wrote and spelled his name Philip, while the clerks usually used Phillip.

 Mid in November

Footnote to Crowhaven Farm I suppose,

Hope Lang once again under the bricks

under the witchcraft radar

schlepping around to take

the rest of Radiann's persimmons

if there are any, the solar rays

got very strong this year

and zapped and withered

everything and even things 

beyond the everything.

The persimmons, all three of them

were tasted by the birds

and rejected so I left 

them there too, I left Alex Hay

with his cat Lily on the table

while we talked about

the heaters and how the windows

cannot be cleaned, we discussed

javelina precautions and how charming

the little house is how happy

he is there

and then I sent my husband

to the store for peppers, onions and cream.

I wanted to tell Alex

what happened there in that room,

my sister's last breaths

how my first shriek of grief

left my mouth from his position

against that wall.

I wanted to certainly

Prophecy

I am sure that 

that was lightning scar

and the rocks are still 

there though smaller 

and we older,

I am sure of so much-

of the lake and the elk

and the rope tied onto

the tree. Those are clearly

trout and it is summer.

One day they will come

and rifle through 

the knick-knacks,

the beads and bedrolls

and will need to know

that rope was tied

onto the tree, it was summer

and those were trout.

 Down through the alleyways of extinction

the abandoned dirt roads where young girls

used to walk unaccompanied

wearing their silk slips outside instead of in

here we are on a lonesome blogspot.

Yes, you heard me.

All the big publishers have moved on

to the big cities

pushing boundaries they said

breaking molds they said

all I see are the shadows of identity

politiks. They took their slips and packed

their bags to make noises in the city

using the sugar daddy model of poetics

gymnastics at 4 am on some old worn

out sofa with Jazz on a streaming device.

We are out here in the country,

enjoying whatever it is you thought 

you found but never even looked for

and that was:  your departure.

We waited because we knew

it would pass.

https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Salah/Wexler-Studio_2-10-17/Salah-Trish_Wexler-Studio-Session_Two-Self-Portraits_2-10-17.mp3

The After Thought

When finally the last words are eaten

and when there's no more 

to fall back on

and the lump of fat that is used

to exercise the heart mediated by the mind,

it is as if the thermo-regulation

of a dog is a more important

organ to the well wishers and naysayers

waving at the hostages

on the way to the mass graves.

My mother used to tell me:

I love you more than all the tea in China.

The day Ron Silliman said this about me: "There were multiple comments in the polyphony of the stream that could be interpreted as racist, especially those made by Lilac, an Anglo woman living as a Muslim in Lebanon."

This was in response to a drunken pair of Filipina poets who went on a rampage because I said Barbara Jane Reyes poetry was not so great but she was exotic looking.  And, she was.  She and her friend Eileen Tabios were also vengeful racists entrapping balding white men on a private site they operated...tricking wealthy old white dudes into marrying Filipino village girls.  Of course, as the Lead Detective on the case, no one at the Silliman Blog knew about the dark side of these two numbnuts.  I exposed them and it led to Ron Silliman taking his toys home and shutting down his comments section forever.  I imagine because he was a total embarrasment.  Coddling two really venomous poets and me....well.  The whole thing happened when I wasn't even there to defend myself from these nasty women.  I was in South Lebanon, no internet, no cares in the world while the bunch of them spun amazing tales of my horrendous White Superiority Complex that was a surprise to me more than anyone.  Me, an "Anglo" woman "LIVING" as a muslim....it doesn't get much better than that when it comes to the outright bullshit bigotry I have faced as a muslim over 40+ years.  

https://carmenisacat.blogspot.com/2006/03/famous-ron-silliman-said-wednesday.html

Untitled/Undated/Also, Ongoing

Someone announces there are jackals in Tel Aviv,

just for saying Jerusalem.

The key to the cities: Beirut and Nablus,

were purchased long ago while you slept

in Long Island.

A journalist fumbles in his pants

for his keys and a lead,

watches Arab children razed,

toilet trained too young on empty cans

carried room to room with the burghul;

it fell in older times from mud kitchen walls,

silos of sand in sand,

dispensing traces of brothers

fallen into wells full with grain.

You in a photograph of a boy

pointing into the deep of the old village house,

the place where you sunk forever.

The UN Sounds Blue

There are jackels out there in the fields,

guarding a hundred ghosts;

dead Roman soldiers

disintegrating near Saladdin's castle.

-a bat skirts through the early morning air

swallowing and swallowing-

The UN makes another patrol

down the thorny roads of South Lebanon

the sun will climb over the horizon

one more time

to make a small history

as if Christ walked here

sweeping for land mines

in the frost cracked hills.

The jackal out back is innocent if we let her be

leave her to her pups.

Their cry sounds like a herd of goats,

or a hundred frogs;

or dying birds;

a plague of locusts.

We could catch one and give it a name

create a race of stray dogs

sought after by collectors of uncommon things.

-but a god damned hunter shoots her anyway-

As bats witness to Rome and Geneva,

the weary eyes of the UN

hide in jeeps and tanks;

big white tanks

their blue flag courses in the wind

flappity flap flap flap,

it sounds blue, like blue flappity flap

in the cold southern wind

full of jackal. 

Written by a Retired RN who became a landlord

On Valentine's Day we readied to sleep

when I heard the first call at 2200

I looked at you,  you already asleep

but listening as you do and said,

"Who would call at this hour unless there was a fire?"

In a fire prone town this is how you think.

I tucked myself in and began the trip to morning.

The second call at 2220 went to voicemail

which politely dictates messages for me, does yours?

It was Ken, he said "Meg, I think your building is on fire,

I think you better head up there."

Long story short, we were up on the hill

just minutes after my second pant leg slid up,

and I always worked best on graveyards.

The man next to us had escaped the blaze.

It was glorious in its own way, out of control

as the BFD performed what is termed: surround and drown.

Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.

He told us in low whispers that he and his wife 

had lost everything in a California burn a few years back,

lightning does strike twice, just not in the same location.

Nothing is left now. Just a bunch of walls like brothers

broken in a war, scorched and scarred and somehow, sacred.

The whole town grieved. We raged and bargained, 

denial of a fire is impossible, denial of our

animosity towards it however isn't, so we toiled

in a state of bitterness until slowly

but surely, we accepted. We graduated from

the Kübler-Ross academy of hard knocks.

We accepted all the feelings we'd hurt and been hurt by.

We accepted the inconveniences, we learned how to get on.

Until my tenant got cancer. Not another one.

It's a God-damned avalanche. Colons and lungs,

brains and skin, breasts and babies, one after another.

I went in to see him, to check on the overdue rent

that I already knew wouldn't be coming

but I wanted to put eyes on the scene

to gather evidence, we all need evidence

and his wife had been crying, he started crying.

There's just no way, we're tapped out

he said, out of pocket expenses already

have a choke hold, "we'll get it to you as soon as we can."

I said to them, "Isn't it weird how the fire missed us like that?

Only to start over here six months later?"

She looked at him, he looked at her,

as if to say, 'how did she know we were just saying that?'

His wife the real life retired homicide detective

who solved a cold case that made it to 

National TV and who told me

when I asked her "what's it like...murder stuff?"

She said "it's the cruel things people do to other people"

...that's what got her out of the profession.

Same here I thought, same here.

Dear Whoever You Are, Once again, I fell to sleep, eventually. The amount of pain I felt was beyond my tolerance for accepting it as 'just pain' and rather, I believed it to be mental illness. Things will never end will they? But you knew this, know this. I wonder who is the teacher? Is it you or the devil? In the morning I wake to realization, that kind of nausea that everyone knows. It will be there for some hours. It is that pattern that I've learned to live with, not an old friend but a regular visitor. A mailman or garbage collector. It is almost a hobby but like stamps, filled with a certain amount of dread, a certain amount of fascination. The sadness that started in the heart and went into the tummy, ends up in the hands. Circles back into the heart and runs the circuit until it has divested of the pertinent electrons responsible for the distribution of grief. Grief? The losses endured. The losses of things no longer even there to remember let alone to grieve. Ancestors. They are there but no longer have names. Whoever you are, my question is this: have you felt your skin on inside out yet?

As if an open book revealed an open heart. I don't like to read books anymore.

Sobbing I dreamt of Gaza last night. I'd been there before, many times. We were visiting a relative in Borj al Borajne, the sign for Gaza in the world of sleep. It was a symptomatic rendition of a proto-typical slum in the Arab world, places you never see unless you have chosen that path. There were orphans there in a room where a dozen or so Arabs were sitting and one orphan in particular who was being bullied by everyone. The orphan had very tiny eyes that never opened. I went to the orphan and picked her up. Her tiny eyes opened as I cradled her well. There was so much love and longing between us. I then had to leave with the group that had accompanied me to the slum. I somehow got separated although as I passed the correct path, the one that went down a hill..I instead went up the hill all alone. I took a wheelbarrow from a worker at the fork in the road in order to carry something. At the top of the hill it became clear I was in the nice part of Gaza, the universal slum. The buildings changed..I noticed terrace gardens where someone had capped their potted plants with old plastic bottles to create terrariums. I was getting more and more nervous, the buldings were getting more opulent and modern. I was in trouble, getting further and further away from my group. I entered a salon and asked to use a lady's cell phone and she agreed but said she had to do some things first. I knew if I called Mel he'd come and get me and the number I can never remember while awake became quite clear. The woman however was deliberately avoiding me to prevent me from leaving her salon, that world of beauty in which she performed an endless number of tasks to put me off. I finally decided to ask one of the customers and went from face to face, person to person and crying. No, because in my dreams I do not cry. I sob tremendously hard. It was one of these dreams that are so common with me now as if to populate every single dream I have anymore. They all end up in desperation until I fully acknowledge that I have the power to end the nonsense. I choose to wake up. I sense an enormous sense of relief knowing that incontinence missed my house once more time.

We were more patches than pants even our cats had holes in them from the BB guns and abcesses which regenerated themselves using tongues as sharp as the underside of wild berry leaves, all of life was an abrasive yet it kept us from going soft on the outskirts. Back then with our brother's jeans rolled up to our knees we stood and waited for the socks to be darned, we stood and waited for the time to pass, we stood and we waited and we stood and our shadows left traces

The Night Won’t End: Biden’s War on Gaza | Fault Lines Documentary

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Delusion Talking to my children this morning, the children that have seen three invasions, three escapes, three traumas.....well none of that can compare to this in Gaza. No but when it comes to tasting that bitter boneless cake we know exactly about the texture and flavor. Even Israel knows it well and have it as a creed: Never Again. The one thing I hear often on the few newscasts that I pay attention to, so accustomed I've become to this ongoing problem that appears to descend from the battles of brutal Assyrian kings...I notice when they ask, "who is going to rule Gaza after this is over?" I don't bother answering because afterall, it's a script and a TV screen. I have spent way too much time shouting at those actors who go home to their lakeside properties in windy cities with mass transit, arriving home to martinis and fettucine. Who are they to ask questions when it is the case that they work in front of butcher shops for the butcher selling knives? Why are they even asking? Do they expect a response or are they scheduled to give one? It is no secret, I have the answer. Are they trying to pry it out of me? They know I know the answer, they stare at me all day feigning ignorance. Memory. Memory is going to rule Gaza. It always has.

Ode To Rocks

In pockets and gardens, under
our beds for miners carry
a fair share in long gray
pails with jugs of soup
near shanks and flesh
with crusts plus those
stored in the chests.
The spare parts of the world
cast about pose a craving
as deep as the ocean is long
as the rivers are wide. A record
of perennial harvests hauled
up from stopes through gob-shite
on ladders of iron out the Judeah

the William Jennings Bryan, Red Jacket,

Cole and Cambell

the Eagle Eye Nagasaki to the north

Beloved fountains of slag
pour into banks of remains
where genuflection pays
paper for gold and time with loss.
Poor men fair well in shifts,
forever on the way in or out
with dirt clinging, dirt in love
with the heroic skin, part
ancient shroud part, let me in.

 Time stood still 

The devil had Frankie on a string

Prancing and grinning in the light

of the flames.

Epiphany of Ending

-“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon [money, possessions, fame, status, or whatever is valued more than the Lord]." - some guy called Matthew

No longer time for real brain 

each touch and switch the antenae twitch

peculiar sound fed into the hand-held

of a dear Pavlov fact-checked inkblot.

I could not put my finger on the special

tinnitus, between gunshot and door slam

used for both hunting and for gathering

yet I heard it, there it was and determined

in true lie-detector fashion,

         the hulking cabal

of our five literal senses produced

yet a sixth, the one I had hoped for

and knew existed:  Eureka!

En la frontera and re-membering

the fundamental block-chain

of the ages Stone to Iron to Data,

how many arthropods it takes

to get to the center of the helix

in state-of-the-art Osterizers

-this last purification hurt

but I've said that before.