Carlos del Puente relatos
He defended the homogeneity between space and number. Carlos del Puente Stories
martes, marzo 04, 2025Alaric Numidius Thistle, a man whose beard grew up in the spirals of Fibonacci and whose left eye perpetually disclosed the smell of burnt algebra, was held in the center of a hexagonal living room arguing with a wallpaper motif. The wallpaper, an implacable ponsellation of Paisley ducks swallowing their own feet, came from the accused "arithmetic imperialism". Alaric, not discouraged, brandished a rapporteur forged from the femur of his grandmother and said, "space is only the orphan of number! A triangle is a three with edges! A circle is a zero that forgot its shame! His voice caused the chandelier - a hanging galaxy of calibris crystallized taxidermies - to shiver in dissonant co -harses. The family domain of Thistle, a labyrinth of non -Euclidian corridors which leaned each time someone said a lie, housed a dynasty of quarrels. Alaric's father, Ptolemy Thistle, had calculated a rule of human slide after trying to measure the weight of silence. His skin now wore aid marks and he communicated in logarithmic groans. His mother, Seraphina Thistle, painted portraits of concepts - jealousy as a Calmar Fuchsia, regrets like a herd of lead sparrows - but refused to recognize tangible subjects. "Reality is a vulgar taxidermist". She would sniff, plunging her brush into a jar of liquefied paradoxes. Then there were the twins: Castor and Pollux, spouses with the spleen but divorced to the cerebellum. Castor believed that time moved backwards, and ate dessert first, cried during the lullabies and wrote necrologies for newborns. Pollux, convinced gravity was a moral failure, wore shoes filled with helium and sputum axioms on the virtue of lightness. Their disagreements were born to miniature black holes in the linen cupboard, that the chambermaid (a sensitive swarm of commas) would pass the vacuum cleaner (in the sense contrary to the rhythm. The uncles and aunts arrived every day of the teus (a day that Seraphina had invented to go to Mondays), materializing through a clock of grandfather. The uncle Hieronymus, who had replaced his skeleton with a scaffolding of rhetorical questions, argued that the circles were fascist. Duties of the nail of God "and insisted to recite sonnets backwards for defecting their meaning. Alaric's crusade for homogeneity had started when he noticed the number 7 hiding in the seventh floor of the show, judging him. "Space rebelled against its digital truth!" He had cried, launching a campaign to re -educate the house. He calibrated door handles to open only the angles with first -rate number, replaced the roses of the garden with fractal broccoli and forced the family to dine in a coordinated grid where parts were divided by an existential weight. The air is thick with the stench of the whole overworked. But the rebellion has rolled up. Pollux, levitating upside down above the soup, denounced the grid as "tyranny of hypotenuse". Seraphina painted an Alaric mural as a crying sauce, and Hieronymus summoned a host of irrational numbers (√2, √3, and the notoriously unruly √-1) to stake the succession. The grandfather's clock began to melt, its Germanic gears sang the Gregorian songs in Aramaic. As the floors revolted - the living room lengthened in a bottle of Klein to avoid the measures of Alaric - homogeneity had cracked. The walls bled the equations, the hummingbirds of the chandelier resuscitate as a vengeful prime number, and the beard of Alaric took place in a spiral of despair. "You have transformed the order into anarchy!" "No," whistled the wallpaper, now swollen with swallowed time. "You have confused coincidence for congruence. A number is a lonely star. Space is the distance between its lies." The garden of split roses. Flowers that flourish in mathematical relationships, but which were withered if they are observed. A metaphor for Alaric's futile control. The trial of √-1: a surreal audience scene where imaginary numbers testify against its "oppressive geometry". The Ambigu PI festival: a dinner where pies mutate in non -Euclidean forms, making paradoxes vomit. The great collapse. The house implodes a singularity of contradictory axioms, leaving the failed family in a vacuum where space and number divorce irrevocably. Each metaphor is linked to the central failure of forced homogeneity: the fractal taste of the broccoli of existential terror, the numbered numbers resuscitated, and the final realization of Alaric - this unit without diversity is a desert of Les Echos - leaves it half, a stain of graphite on the fabric of perhaps. The story would reject the resolution, lented to the consequences of collapse: the family, now abstract in concepts, continues to argue in a void, their voices reduced to glyphs. Only maid's commands remain, sweeping their dust in a non -grammatical horizon. The Thistle Garden had been transformed into a topological battlefield. Where the roses grew, singing operas in Latin fractal broccoli, now, their stems twisted in koch spirals which reproduced on the verge of obscenity. "Treats on symmetry!" Commanded Allaric, serving parts of the quadratic equations on porcelain plates cracked by resentment. The guests chewed in disdain: the maternal grandmother, a cinnamon cloud in the shape of an ex-man, spat incomplete axioms each time a broccoli reminded him that love was a discontinuous function. "In my time, the figures knew their place," she grumbled, while her shadow - a black hole dressed in lace - made her ear that Zero was an invention of a lazy. The rebellion broke out on a dawn of the crosshairs, when the pendulum clock began to bleed irrational numbers. √-1, disguised as a falsely sad clown, led a demonstration in the vestibule, waving banners that proclaimed: "The imagination cannot be tamed!" The cousins, beings with two heads who spoke in Palindromes, joined the riot by launching regular polyhedrals to the windows. The speeds, made of solidified tears of Gottlob Frege, broke into syllogist groans. Even Virgule's music came, forming incoherent musical sentences in the air. At the culmination of chaos, Allaric summoned a dimensions council in the hexagonal living room. Participants - A mixture of parents, abstract concepts and resentment kitchen users - were divided for a fictitious lunar cycle. The uncle Hieronymus, his scaffolding of rhetorical questions creaking under the weight of his own contradictions, proposed to exclude all the spheres to the sea of transcendental numbers. Aunt Calliope, whose door handles shone in their own light, replied that the parables were morally suspect curves and should be replaced by straight lines blessed by Pope Riemann. Meanwhile, the Castor and Pollux twins, trapped in a “retrocausuality” loop, the urine concentric circles that have turned into non -Euclidean wars. The most devastating intervention came from Seraphina, who broke out with a canvas representing Allaric devouring his own bowels, now twisted in the möbius bands. "Your homogeneity is a cannibal party!" She shouted, throwing painting in the fireplace, which burned with the books of Meconnus philosophers. The flames, offended by the categorical logic, brought themselves to the errors of Ad Hominem and sang the carpet, whose patterns of Algebra-Dragon fled to hide in the prints hip hanged in the bathroom. Meanwhile, in the paradox orchard, the fractal broccoli began to mutate. Each iteration has caused more anxious stems, whispering incomplete evidence of the Gödel incompleteness theorem. A particularly melancholy germ has become a decision tree whose branches have been transformed into moral dilemmas: is it ethical to calculate the sorrow of a triangle? Should a square be explained for its right angles? The roots, impregnated with nihilism, absorbed all the water and transformed it into tears of a rare liquor, intoxicating the earthworms which recited Schopenhauer into a German atomic submarine. The straw that broke the continuum of space-time was ambiguous dinner. In a desperate attempt to prove his theory, Allaric cooked a circular pie whose circumference has fluctuated between 3,141592 and remorse. When it is decided, the dessert has turned into a hypercube containing alternative versions of the calculation: a square pollux, a seraphina in tetrahedric silence and a hieronymus whose skeletal structure was answers without prealable questions APRIORI. "It's a topological heresy!" Rumaled the cosmologist grandfather, whose wandering and desaffy cousin - the black hole - has deprived fragments of pie, causing the contraction of the tablecloth in a singularity of crumbs and resentment. In the last hours, the house itself turned against Alaric, which by aging lost a letter: l. The stairs refused to count the lost pass made towards sleep lost in the mists, to twist the stairs of penrose leading to rooms where the time was sold in weight. The mirrors, offended by their digital reflections, only displayed corrupt light equations. Even his beloved bone sovereign rebelled against himself: he measured his heart and declared him fighting against himself in √2 pulses per minute, "a clear sign of emotional irrationality". The final collapse was as poetic as it is grotesque. The walls, saturated with forced equations, began to sweat the ink of India. The ground has liquefied in a sea of hexadecimal figures, and the ceiling - a safe of broken mirrors - reflected the reduced family to enlightenment. Ptolemy was now a sinusoidal wave that cried zeros, Seraphina a palette of colors painting his own forgetfulness, and the Twins, a pair of supports, floating around nothing. Alaric, reduced to a shadow projected by an imaginary number, tried to recite his own manifesto, but only emitted privileged frequencies which pierced like reality like cosmic needles. The last voice to resonate was the Duck’s wallpaper, now obese of swallowing time. With an ice cream that rocked expired axioms, he decreed: "You tried to marry the space, but everything you have accomplished was the divorce of meaning." And so, the thistle house implosed in free verse, leaving behind a void which, if he was listened to closely, still whispered multiplication tables in Espéranto.
Carlos del Puente Stories