The First Trip or Kether
It was the year when they finally immanentized the Eschaton. On April 1, the world's great powers came closer to nuclear war than ever before, all because of an obscure island named Fernando Poo. By the time international affairs returned to their normal cold-war level, some wits were calling it the most tasteless April Fools' joke in history. I happen to know all the details about what happened, but I have no idea how to recount them in a manner that will make sense to most readers.
For instance, I am not even sure who' I am, and my embarrassment on that matter makes me wonder if you will believe anything I reveal. Worse yet, I am at the moment very conscious of a squirrel -in Central Park, just off 68th Street, in New York City- that is leaping from one tree to another, and I think that happens on the night of April 23 (or is it the morning of April 24?), but fitting the squirrel together with Fernando Poo is, for the present, beyond my powers.
I beg your tolerance. There is nothing I can do to make things any easier for any of us, and you will have to accept being addressed by a disembodied voice just as I accept the compulsion to speak out even though I am painfully aware that I am talking to an invisible, perhaps nonexistent, audience.
Wise men have regarded the Earth as a tragedy, a farce, even an illusionist's trick; but all, if they are truly wise and not merely intellectual rapists, recognize that it is certainly some kind of stage in which we all play roles, most of us being very poorly coached and totally unrehearsed before the curtain rises.
Is it too much if I ask, tentatively, that we agree to look upon it as a circus, a touring carnival wandering about the Sun for a record season of four billion years and producing new monsters and miracles, hoaxes and bloody mishaps, wonders and blunders, but never quite entertaining the customers well enough to prevent them from leaving, one by one, and returning to their homes for a long and bored winter's sleep under the dust?
Then, say, for a while at least, that I have found an identity as ringmaster; but that crown sits uneasily on my head (if I have a head) and I must warn you that the troupe is small for a universe this size and many of us have to double or triple our stints, so you can expect me back in many other guises. Indeed do many things come to pass.
all text sampled from "The Illuminatus! Trilogy"
by Robert Anton Wilson & Robert Shea
© Dell Publishing, 1975
all fnords reserved
º
in chaos to create order,
click there to visit rawilson.com.
to pull a Cosmic Trigger, pull this finger
Bob's Our Uncle - node 23.001, click here
Bob's Our Uncle - node 23.002, click here
Bob's Our Uncle - node 23.003, click here
Bob's Our Uncle - node 23.004, click here
Bob's Our Uncle - node 23.005, click here
⊙
.: who makes the grass green :.
No comments:
Post a Comment