The Rule
I was exploring, as one does, a workshop; an atelier you might say. When I noticed a length of wood leaning against a wall. It appeared to be just a piece of wood; except that it had been marked carefully along one edge, almost like the Ogham I discovered in the Irish National Library, but in wood not stone.
“That's a rule,” said a voice beside me. It was the sort of statement that attracts trouble. I turned and found myself standing next to a Sorter. A Block Shirt, the ones rarely encountered accidentally. They have a way of appearing whenever a thing approaches a category.
“A rule?” I asked. “Obviously.” The Sorter spoke with the confidence of someone whose shelves are all labelled and nothing is misplaced. I examined the wood. It was fifty centimetres long. “Why is it a rule?” “Because it is used for measuring.” I considered this. “Then surely it is a ruler.”
The Sorter sighed, not unlike the man who ironed his map when it failed to agree with reality. Then attempted to iron reality when the map still refused to comply. “No. A ruler and a rule are different things.”
This may have been true. Many things are. Yet something about the answer unsettled me. I looked at the wood. The measurements upon it referred to a standard elsewhere. The standard itself was invisible. The marks derived their meaning from an agreement beyond the stick. The rule, I thought, was not the wood. The rule was that fifty centimetres should be fifty centimetres. The wood merely carried the rule through the world. I mentioned this. The Sorter reversed his sigh. The intake was sharp enough to shave several splinters from one side of the wood. And immediately produced two boxes: RULE. RULER.
I have learned to be cautious whenever boxes appear unexpectedly. “Which is it?” asked the Sorter, with an insistence that seemed to demand I answer. I became suspicious. Why was the Block Shirt pushing me toward a decision? I looked again at the wood. It seemed an oddly narrowing question.
The object was not the standard itself, yet neither was it merely separate from the standard. Without it, the standard remained distant, silent, waiting but unapplied. Through it, the standard acquired presence in the world. More than that, it acquired meaning. Until then, fifty centimetres was simply an agreement. Here it entered the world of tables and doors and awkwardly cut pieces of timber. The standard did not change. Yet somehow, by being applied, it became more fully itself.
I found myself thinking of the fada. The mark above a vowel whose name is not just fada but “an sĂneadh fada” – the “long” stretch. The transformation was familiar. The description of the thing, becomes the thing. Long becomes fada. Then fada becomes the mark by which longness appears. A quality acquires form. A notion acquires a body. Perhaps measurements did the same. Perhaps a rule, travelling far enough through the world, eventually became ruler-shaped.
The Sorter shook his head. “You must choose.” The wood remained silent. “If it applies the rule,” I said, “it may be a ruler.” “If it embodies the standard,” said the Sorter, “it is a rule.” The wood appeared equally unconcerned by both possibilities. That struck me as significant.
The Sorter inspected forms. The wood inspected nothing. It merely continued being whatever it was. A carrier of a standard. A body for a measurement. A thing through which an abstraction became visible. The Sorter held open the boxes. RULE. RULER.
I held the wood over one box, then the other. The wood offered no guidance. At last I set it down between them and continued on my way. The Sorter called after me that every object must belong somewhere. I did not turn around. Behind me, the marked length of wood remained precisely where I had left it. Between the boxes. And measuring perfectly. And remaining, like so many questions I encounter, unfinished.
✒️ Sigi