Elemental contradictions, the second most basic building blocks of the multiverse, are only celebrated roughly once every 4700 years on the earthy, misshapen surface of our spinning planet, and even then only by those few in the know. No rabbits, reptiles, pigeons, or ladybugs need apply. Forget about mere humans. Like, duh.
If left solely up to the pair of astral traveling beavers, Berton and Burton, it would be a fuck of a lot more often. If astral traveling whales can consistently dig it the most, they reasonably maintain, why not us? Astral traveling scorpions, however, per their norm, were opposed to any more celebrating than the grisly minimum.
I asked the tawny owl what it all meant, in addition to all the reasons why, but he refused to bite, or even deign to scowl at me.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I didn’t try to push it, not only because I knew he was right, but because I had all I could handle in attempting to master my variable figure-eights, the single most basic building block of the multiverse, especially employing hips and neck in quasi-simultaneity with gray matter, while balanced precariously at the edge of western civilization overlooking Monterey Bay. You can probably see where a careless consideration of spatial contradictions might tend to send a singular entity leaning too far over the edge. What happens if I eliminate hunger and desire? Which malady comes next? More stress? Like, duh.
I don’t even attempt to configure most of the rest of the days, every other week excluding schedule changes due to cosmetic procedures, when I am being controlled and dominated by the spawn of my loins, the rocketing tween twins. I have learned, though I can’t exactly remember when or how, that I’m better off letting someone else try to juggle innumerable bowling pins, rapiers, or great balls of fire at once.
It’s not as though I remain 100% ignorant of the massive interstellar pull from elemental contradictions, but like most humans I habitually turn my head and cough when the subject comes up. Is it nature or nurture, sulfur or uranium? Like most humans, I habitually pretend I don’t give a fuck when the one true absolute answer eludes me. Or try my best to fake it. That’s nothing more than basic Public Relations 101.
You want an extra squirt of lubricating goo in that gargantuan take-out container you’re carrying on behalf of a few billion more perpetrators? Sure, why not? How can another little smidgen hurt?
Had I been privy to a greater fraction of the fifty million years of experience that the tawny owl has garnered so efficiently from all of his fore bearers beginning in their Romanian bog, including 22 million years of breathless astral traveling to the nether spaces between Galaxy NGC3314a and Galaxy NGC3314b, along with his astral traveling buddies Berton and Burton, I am pretty sure I would have come up with a better answer in the here and now than another question, like the proverbial, what the fuck?
I was busy thinking just that, or not busy exactly, but breathing fair to moderately well, if not especially deeply, while rolling into a series of extended hip-configured figure-eights focused on the tianshu earth phase meridian that were satisfying my urges under a redwood tree in the Santa Cruz Mountains, when the tween twins arrived to begin another week according to terms of the court order. I noticed that each was carrying one of the dueling swords with which they practice stylistic parrying at odd hours in alternating positions.
Backpacks hit the floor hard. Loads of resin goo, fossil fuels, tinny alloys, vaporous amalgams. I trailed a step behind but I had plenty of experience in dodging obstacles. Where there is no harm, there must be no foul. See no, hear no. That counts as a tautology in my book.
Sincerely, I felt as if we all needed to start the week off right, on a serious note with a serious discussion of important, impactful issues that would have a stern and weighty bearing on the postures that the tween twins hauled down the road for years to come. No jokes to start. I was not going to stoop to telling lame jokes. I know the tween twins may at times grow weary of my lame attempts at humor and view it as a cry for help. What they don’t realize is, so do I.
Sincere again, I asked, “How was school?”
The yang twin grimaced and muttered, “Dude.”
I said, “Okay you’re right. ”
The yin twin pitched in and said, “Would it be better to hear that school sucked?”
“Now, I’m stumped.”
“Because it does.”
“I get it. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You’re right, you’re both right. Reduce hunger, gain stress. Can’t forget the basics.”
“Dude, don’t start going all wacko on us right away.”
“What about this? What about your thoughts on the likelihood of astral traveling entities rising in an arc to higher realms of consciousness?”
The yin twin snapped, “Absolutely.”
I said, “Really? Just like that?”
The yang twin said, “Tell me what it is and I”ll do it.”
I said, “Now I’m stumped all over again.”
I realize that no arc is any more than a segment of a loopy mass, and the mulitversal concept of spatial contradictions makes that point more or less clear, though rarely as an absolute, sort of, but past that point I get lost a lot. Unless that point is merely more loopy again.
But, what if my singular step behind is one of many giant leaps that fall short across too great a divide? What happens when the tween twins get far out there and I’m still left breathing not too deeply along with all of the prosaic canaries in the coal mine?
As the tawny owl often remarks, “You better get ready to be amazed.”
“But, in a good way, right?”
The zero-sum game of organic matter in which humans go to such extremes to be the biggest cheaters of all time only appears for now to be lose-lose. It has always been mightily hard for humans to see with any more than superficial depth while in constant emergency survival mode, which is all the time, being unable to fit in pretty much anywhere with grace or ease, due to excessive heat, cold, thirst, hunger, ennui. Like, duh.
From a position farther out in the multiverse it is easier to understand without reliance on myopic vision that the beat will become bouncier once human bones are finally tucked away deep in the ground to smolder next to the dinosaurs who made their short reign possible. Then there will be jubilation and revelry among the many creatures left to prosper in relative peace, the astral traveling owls, and beavers, and humpback whales, who understand how to hold on without shooting the entire wad prematurely. Perhaps even scorpions will show off a sunnier side. It’s hard for humans imprisoned by retarded logic to get used to the fact that nothing ends any more than it begins. Like, duh.
I said to the tween twins, “It looks like my job here is pretty darn well done.”
The yang twin said, “What job? All you do all day long is talk, talk, talk.”
I said, “You’re right. So finally, you understand. I was worried you haven’t been listening. It’s hard to get a handle on no beginning and no end when coming from a species only fifty thousand years old.”
“Dude, I never know what you’re talking about.”
“Keep up the good work.”
“And dude, I mean like all of the time.”
“That’s a lot of time to cover. The good thing is it appears that it won’t be ending anytime soon.”