Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ End of Part 4

By Brian George

Let us imagine that we are intoxicated gods, now derelict, who passersby pause to laugh at on the street. We have lost all access to our supernatural weapons, as well as at least four of our eight limbs. Somehow, we have found ourselves at a 12-step recovery program, half awake. A court seems to have mandated our attendance—for a period of not less than 5200 but not more than 26,000 years—at a theatre workshop called “The Zodiac.” The goal: to decipher the instructions that we had scribbled in the Ur-Text, and, by means of impenetrable stealth, to perfect the archaic art of bi-location.

I do realize: That my martial discipline of ritualized “acting without acting” must seem suspiciously like a total lack of action. It’s not that I don’t understand the urgent need for taking clear and forceful action in the cause of social justice, or for reimagining the key elements that breathe life into a commonwealth, but rather that it seems important to think small. To the power of the multinational corporation, the black magic of the Plutocracy, the each year more hypnotic morphogenetic field of the descendants of Tyrannosaurus Rex: I would dare to oppose the power of the Seed.

In a comment above, I had written, “It is possible that there will be no non-participants in the revolution against History.” To which you responded, “You think? It seems to me that most Americans are happy to sit back and enjoy the show with a tub of popcorn. I look around and see zombie robots and then people with a light that shines around them. It becomes obvious who is ascending and who is not.”

Well, I certainly did not intend to come off sounding like an optimist! Few have ever thought to accuse me of such a thing. Instead, I meant to suggest that we all will be swept up by the unfolding of the time-cycle, for better or for worse, as we have been by the collapse of the world economy—“there will be no non-participants.” This sentence should be read in the context of the one that follows: “At the moment, I feel that I am being carried forward in a small boat on an ocean, with no real way to steer.” If we are, in fact, involved in some vast process of cosmogenesis, it is always possible that we do not need to know more than we do. As fetuses, our job is to be what and where we are. 


(Illustration: Max Beckmann, The Departure, 1932)

Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ Middle of Part 4

By Brian George

The answer to any and all of life’s dilemmas seems to be: To eliminate the tax burden placed on the top one percent of billionaires.

Over the past few years, I have been stunned and fascinated by this phenomenon of what would appear to be self-inflicted blindness. To me, the anti-gravitational flight of UFOs or the building of the Great Pyramid of Giza are far less mysterious than a phenomenon of this type. If we were talking about a DMT induced vision, then we might expect any and all descriptions of an object to diverge, but we are talking about the realm of shared three-dimensional space. I often feel, quite literally, that I am living inside of a dream. Not only do people not seem to see the gigantic object that is right in front of them, hidden—by Plutonic as well as other archetypal forces—plain sight, but the Powers That Be have not gone to any lengths to disguise it! As any child can see, in the middle of the room there is a creature that looks just like an elephant.

About 20 years ago, I heard a Russian folk tale has stuck with me, although I don’t remember how the tale begins. At some point, however, a magical being offers to grant one with to a peasant. The peasant can have anything he wants. The only catch is that his neighbor will be given twice as much of it. The peasant thinks and thinks, and then smiles as he says, “I would like you to blind me in one eye!” At the time, I regarded this as an exotic tale. Now, it seems like a description of our day to day psychology. Strange forces are at work.

A dark cloud has been hanging above the country since the detonation of the first atomic bomb. In the 66 years since Trinity, when a mushroom cracked the sky, the dark cloud that it left does not seem to have lightened much, and, if anything, hangs even closer to the ground. Let us posit that this breach birth of “free energy” beamed a signal to the other-dimensional guardians of our race, who, in turn, issued an ultimatum to us: That we keep our eyes wide open—in order, at some point, to remember what we are. For the most part, this ultimatum has been systematically ignored. Why, then does the world look different, so that its beauty fills me with a sense of tragic joy?

Perhaps it is because, in my crude attempts to give birth to the Stone of the Philosophers, upon which I would ride, I am only just now able to intuit how the tension between opposites is in no way accidental. As Heraclitus said, “They do not apprehend how being in conflict it still agrees with itself; there is an opposing coherence, as in the tensions of the bow and lyre.” It is just this tension that we must transmute into fuel.

For example: For a group to violently argue for positions that are 180 degrees opposed to its real interests—this could reasonably be described as ignorant. Disaster follows. As night follows day, stupor follows from possession by an archetype. The helpless are punished, for they are bad, and their lack of wealth must be interpreted as a sign, just as billions more must be contributed—or else!—to the war chest of the psychopath. Outrage would be justified, but wonder is equally valid as a response. Now, when I find myself relapsing into judgment, I prefer to look at those parts of myself that I perceive as being “dead.” It is a way to shake things up, a form of metaphysical Aikido, a means to break the chain by which cause leads automatically to effect. Put simply: It is a place to begin.

My hope is—and perhaps this is a form of cowardice or a rationalization of my need for “personal space”—that any change in consciousness may obey the law of “action at a distance,” and that this change may be of use to those with the equipment to receive it. In chapter two of the Tao Te Ching we read, “Therefore the Master can act without doing anything and teach without saying a word.” And also, in chapter 36, “Just as fish remain hidden in deep water, it is best to keep weapons out of sight.”

This is not to say that I would be displeased to witness a new trend in armed confrontations on the barricades, in which squadrons of young heroes—all handsome and/or beautiful, of course—would dare to face down the massed forces of Genetically Engineered Corn, before setting fire to the headquarters of the WTO. As a precaution, it might also be advisable to drive a stake through the heart of the IMF—on the off chance that there is someone who could find it. The decentralized autocracy does not provide us with clear focal points; there are few—if any—targets that it would be useful to destroy. At a G20 protest, if the anarchist in the black bandana is an undercover cop, and the rock thrown through the window can be used as the pretext for a crackdown, then how would it be possible to determine who has won? Soon, coming to a mall near you: Designers will explore new concepts in guerilla marketing to promote their lines of Black Bloc street-fighting couture! I would probably tend to agree with the most radical of diagnoses, or even to propose that they do not go far enough, but any large scale surgery on the Body Politic I must trust to those with more ideological pep. 

(Illustration: Max Beckmann, Hell of Birds)

Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ Part 3 and beginning of Part 4

By Brian George

3

In her comment “I Hate America,” Joan of Art wrote:

“I still clench my teeth every time some loud-mouthed American screams to me across the street, "It's not Halloween!" because costume is my form of social dissent. These cowboy fuckers see a gorgeous queen of a woman in her full sequined Egyptian attire and then think that an appropriate response is to scream rudely across the street to make her feel like crap. Am I to have compassion for their sheer idiocy and rudeness?

“I think the problem with a sample study of taking four well-meaning Americans and writing a book based on the American Dream is that most Americans are stupid as hell. I apologize for being so vulgar about this—but freedom in this country has seemed to turn into the right to shut other people down. The internet has been launching demonic energy at me as a result of tagged words in my Election Art Battle, and I am having to fight multi-demented black magicians and demons right now to get them the fuck off of Earth.

“Please don't misread my passion for anger. I am immortally pissed. I am also strangely at peace in the battle of the multidimensional war of which I am now a part. I will not let them take me out. The fates of Sirius and Earth are interwoven. The veil between the dimensions has fully opened—at least from where I'm standing, grabbing demons and sending them back through the Halls of Amenti to the dimension from which they sprang.”

4

“What a strange manner of being dead”

Hi Joan of Art,

When faced with a pod of rude recombinants from America, it is possible that gratitude is the only correct response. If the world cohered—already, and without change—in a state of unbroken fullness then we would not ever be tempted to depart from Hyperspace. No food would be delivered to the gods. They would look like skeletons. With no blood to refresh their beauty, their idealized proportions would be abstract, and few inter-species marriages would endure. Ambassadors would lose track of which language they were speaking. If some percentage of the public were not ignorant, then why would you need to have compassion for them? Already, they would be members of the elect. I can only hope that my other-dimensional teachers do not withhold their compassion until I am perfect. That would certainly be quite a wait! 

In the mean time, the Underworld has need of us. The genius of the Great Year fades. Space appears flat—not like the 10-dimensional labyrinth that it is—and the World of Light sinks beyond the edge of the horizon.

“Sleepers also share in the work of the cosmos,” said Heraclitus. It has taken me quite a while to begin to guess what he meant. Among other things, I think that he was saying that there is a purpose to unconsciousness. As when we breathe, the light goes in and out—i.e., it cannot go in without also going out. If the stars did not revolve, and the genius of the Great Year was completely self-enclosed, then immortality and death would not be any different. There would be no variations on the 12 archetypal themes.

When I was a senior in high school, I discovered a poem by Cesar Vallejo that in part reads, “You people are dead, but what a strange manner of being dead. Anyone might say that you were not.” “Aha,” I thought, “my sentiments exactly!” Since then, my attitude towards human ignorance has changed, more on some days than others, but I still have immediate access to the emotions that I felt. And should I, by some lessening of testosterone, be somehow tempted forget my sense of adolescent outrage, updated access is guaranteed by such groups as the Tea Party, who spare no expense in providing me with fresh targets for my disgust.

For example: Wolf Blitzer, in a CNN debate, asks Ron Paul about a 30 year-old male who has “chosen” not to purchase health insurance. He goes into a coma, and requires six months of intensive care. Should society just let him die? Paul answers, “That’s what freedom is all about, taking your own risks. This whole idea that you have to prepare and take care of everybody…” The crowd then erupts in shouts of “Yeah! Yeah! Let him die!” This is not the response of a group of conscious beings. Even now, I could not help but feel: We are watching a live broadcast from one of the cities of the dead. They are no doubt starved for biomorphs, and are making every effort to increase their population.


(Illustration: Max Beckmann, Carnival)

Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ Part 2

By Brian George

The transparency of the epileptic boat

Hi Gilberto,

You wrote, “Hyperspace is certainly not a shelter from the storm. Although we (seemingly) escape, we only set the stage for a return to the same situation. Perhaps different settings, time periods, characters, genders, etc. In my humble opinion, the lesson not learned is the lesson gladly returned. Although I do like the option of escaping for a cosmic nap and dealing with certain things later....”

My sense is that we are entering a period of transition in the relationship between dimensions, in which the interaction between the vertical and the horizontal axes will be redefined. No exchange will be fixed, and a shock wave will run upwards, through the “higher” worlds, as well as outwards, through the global body.

It is possible that there will be no non-participants in the revolution against History—that the past and the future will be seen as our wayward children, as flawed but necessary aspects of a project that we undertook long ago. At the moment, I feel that I am being carried forward in a small boat on an ocean, with no real way to steer. No matter, since even the small boat must go; all transport must begin and end with the body, in its role as a primordial vehicle.

Collectively, we are approaching a near death state, and the knowledge for our own good hidden beyond death is beginning once again to speak. There is no time like the “present” to confront the projection of our fears. At a certain stage in our initiation, it may dawn on us that trauma is not other than a door to ecstasy—a door that opens at the center of the sky—or, conversely, that ecstasy may be the key that unlocks the hieroglyph of trauma.

“Non-attachment” is often seen as a meditative accomplishment, but it is naturally present, for a time at least, in the normal near death experience, as it may be also in the current transition between worlds. The freefall of the world economy may force us to make a virtue of necessity; we are picked up by the hair. Each ego must become a movable “omphalos.”


(Illustration: Wassily Kandinsky, Painting with Three Spots, 1914)

Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ Part 1

By Brian George

A while back, I posted an essay on Reality Sandwich called "Habits of the Heart." I have assembled an essay out of some of the comments from the forum, which I have been in the process of revising. (Comments to me are as orignally written--my own comments have been expanded and revised.) Over the next few weeks, I will be posting the nine sections of this essay. Here is the first part:

__

And in this sense, I say, the world was before the Creation, and at an end before it had a beginning; and thus was I dead before I was alive, though my grave be England, my dying place was Paradise, and Eve miscarried of me before she conceived of Cain.”—Thomas Browne, from “Religio Medici,” 1643

1

The Enigma of the Labyrinth; Any Wrong Turn is Correct

Hi Somatics,

In your comment entitled “Culture Cage”, you wrote, “Crazy crossed wires frizzing miles and miles of toxic channels carved through your synapses through long fermentation. Language is black magic and the double edged sword. Please only take it out of the sheath to reflect light into the dark not to hack away at gifts placed around you. Mr. McKenna stated ‘culture is not your friend.’ He wasn’t wrong. Are you wearing clothes or are you the clothes?...Truths are only evident in the pit of the stomach or the centre of the chest. Plant vegetables or create your thing and chuck away the television or magazine.”

I do believe that we—as the collective embodiment of the vision on which this country was founded—have reached an impasse, but it is an impasse only in terms of our own level of understanding. All of my work is premised on the assumption that the universe coheres in a state of multidimensional perfection; it cannot be broken. This, of course, presents us with a paradox, since Time would appear to break all things. Without being “broken” the Primordial Male/Female Body cannot act or reproduce, and creation would remain a hermetically sealed dream.

You speak of a “double edge sword,” and in this intuition you are correct: The energy of the trickster is never far from my thoughts, and a love of paradox is at the heart of my creative method. When faced with mutually impossible alternatives, the mind can jump to a different level of connection. Ends and beginnings are not necessarily different. When the “common wisdom” is a euphemism for oligarchic propaganda, and our habitual modes of interpretation do not really explain a thing, then perhaps we would do well to approach each fact or phenomenon as a koan. The Monk Mayo asked this question of the Sixth Patriarch: "What is Zen?" The Patriarch answered, "When your mind is not dwelling on the dualism of good and evil, what is your original face before you were born?" This would suggest that real knowledge cannot be reached by a process of addition; instead, it has to do with the removal of all irrelevant objects in the foreground.

Let us say that some ancient trauma has blocked access to the Macrocosm: Our instinct is to run from the event, which, with each step that we take, gets closer. Glass towers are built on the emptiness that is left when indigenous tribes—with most but not all of their oral literature—are erased. YHVH is pleased, as is Calvin—the stone god of psychopaths.

Yet there is no starting over. Fear has turned us into victims, and a near-death experience could not come soon enough. A sword, in the end, is intended to destroy, and thus to liberate the energy that has been trapped within a form, but it is up to us as to whether this will lead to discrimination. I envision a perfect sword strike, in which each head will be split open from the crown to the pineal gland, and that out of this will rise our perception—now direct—of the sphere whose center is as large as its circumference.

(Illustration: Leonora Carrington,

“There was a time when only wise books were read”—Czeslaw Milosz

By Brian George

(This is my second comment to archetypal astrologer and social critic Jessica Murray on her “MotherSky” post “Beyond Irony.”)

“The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.”—Czeslaw Milosz

Hi Jessica,

You wrote, “It’s remarkable, by contrast, how un-ironic writers from earlier epochs were. Many of the Victorian thinkers, even the sober, philosophical ones, come across now as eye-rollingly naïve. A good example is Charles Dickens, who condemned the injustices of his time in prose that strikes our modern tastes as unbearably sentimental. But there is one thing about his un-ironic tone, with its unabashed outrage, its florid idealism (he had an Aquarius Sun and a Sagittarius Moon conjunct Neptune, for heaven’s sake) that you can’t argue with: it passes the test of time. Irony is less able to make this claim.”

As you can probably tell, my intention was not to disagree with you, but rather to call attention to a different type of irony. Hemingway said that it was essential for a writer to possess a “built-in bullshit detector.” A sense of irony is one of the signs that this detector is functioning properly. To me, a sense of irony is a particular instance of an ability to see the world from a multitude of angles—an ability which can also manifest in the form of visionary intuition, as the lightning flash that transforms sense into nonsense and nonsense into sense. My wife associates the birth of her sense of irony with her first psychedelic experience.

Here are a couple of context-subverting comments attributed to Diogenes that you might find amusing:

1) “After being banished from Sinope, Diogenes said, ‘The Sinopeans have condemned me to banishment; I condemn them to stay at home!'"

2) “When asked how he would like to be buried, Diogenes replied 'face downwards.' When asked why, he explained that the Macedonians were rising in power so rapidly that the world would shortly be turned upside down and he would then be the right way up.”

When I was at Mass College of Art, I had a philosophy teacher from Hungary called Jasminka Udoviki. She was an excellent teacher, but, perhaps because English was not her native language, or due to her passion for social justice, she seemed to have no sense of irony whatsoever. During one semester, she refused to grade any of my essays, claiming that they were too “poetic,” and that the language was too far outside the bounds of normal philosophical discourse. Unlike Nietzsche or Cioran, I suppose. Luckily, I still ended up with an A minus in the course.

In retrospect, I can see that the problem was less one of metaphor than of irony. She would tend to take almost all of my ironic statements at face value. This meant that she would often think that I meant the exact opposite of what I actually meant; any subsequent arguments would then make no sense at all


(Illustrations: James Ensor, The Intrigue, 1911/ Roman theatre masks)

On the Darkness Behind the Mask of the Many-Faced Muse of Irony

By Brian George

I have long been an admirer of the work of Jessica Murray, author of the terrific book “Soul-Sick Nation; An Astrologer’s View of America,” and host of the blog “MotherSky.” Jessica is a practitioner of what she calls “Archetypal Astrology.” What most impresses me is that she is able to move fluently back and forth between a macrocosmic perspective—which I sometimes see as that of a disincarnate soul, at the tail end of its involvement in a time cycle, i.e., that of a Gnostic "Aeon"—and a cutting edge awareness of key social, political, and cultural issues of the day. Over the next week or so, I will be posting a number of comments that I wrote for the forum on her essay “Beyond Irony.”

Hi Jessica,

You wrote, “It must say something about our society that the use of irony has become so all-pervasive. Why do we rely on it so much in writing? Why do we frame so much of what we say with finger quotes? It strikes me that irony is essentially a self-protective mechanism, disguised as a stylish gesture. It works by holding its cards close to the vest. When we’re being ironic, we allude to our point instead of throwing all of our weight behind it. We make a show of holding back our sincerity. Irony makes no claims to opening the heart, in either the speaker or the listener.”

I have often had similar thoughts about a certain type of irony. If deployed as an all-purpose attitude toward the world, the subversive force of irony can quickly become boring. As the saying goes, “To a hammer everything looks like a nail.” Too much hyper-self-awareness is—ironically—not that different from unconsciousness. True insight is attentive to its object, whereas the judgment of the ironist is on everything and nothing, and all judgments must inevitably confirm his/her sense of superiority.

Well, that settles that! As the agents of the City Beyond Time, we should no doubt strive to be 100% sincere.

As a poet, however, I also have a somewhat different way of looking at the issue, for, without irony, there would be no modern poetry. Not every type of irony reflects the disengagement of the slacker. In fact, irony can be one of the primary weapons that allows a poet to take on an empire, and that empowers him to move freely against overwhelming odds. It is the pin that pops the metaphysical balloon, the slingshot that takes down Goliath.

For example: I am truly in awe of some of the poetry that was written in Eastern Europe after World War II—when, for some period of time, literature itself was thought to be impossible. These writers--among them Milosz, Celan, and Herbert—give form to my intuitions as to how spiritual vision can be tempered by and integrated with a weight of historical knowledge. To all of these writers, irony was one of the primary weapons in their arsenal. To use it well was a matter of life or death.

Here is the beginning of Zbigniew Herbert’s poem “Caligula Speaks”:

Caligula Speaks

Among all the citizens of Rome

I loved only one

Incitatus—a horse

when he entered the Senate

the unstainable toga of his coat

gleamed in the midst

of purple-lined assassins

Incitatus possessed many merits

he never made speeches

had a stoic temperament

I think at night in the stable he read the philosophers

I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

but his noble anatomy made it impossible

he accepted the honor of consulship with indifference

exercised authority in the best manner

that is not at all

he would not be persuaded toward a lasting liason

with my second wife Caesonia

thus unfortunately the lineage of centaur ceasars

was not engendered

that is why Rome fell

These writers often seem to be saying: Civilization does not automatically progress. True change does not come through politics. No technological solution can be expected to appear on the horizon.

There is often a very visceral sense of the reality of evil, of bureaucratic corruption, and of the power of the lie. At the same time, there is no easy recourse to stern moralistic finger wagging. Something altogether more mysterious is often going on—the veil between the worlds has ripped, and a wave of supernatural force has begun to transfigure common objects.

Irony here performs a function similar to that of metaphor—it is a method of linking seemingly discontinuous meanings, and of jumping between one level of reality and the next. Unlike the slacker version, this use of irony is expansive rather than contractive. It is a tool for liberation. Reading the best of Eastern European writers from this period, it is difficult for me not to view myself and my contemporaries as naive, and I look to them for clues as to how I might be possible to “begin beyond the end.”

And, finally, here is Herbert’s “The Envoy of Mr Cogito”—a very non-ironic statement by an otherwise highly ironic writer. In it, the author gives us direct access into the world view and sense of purpose that underlie his use of irony.

The Envoy of Mr Cogito

         

Go where those others went to the dark boundary

for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees

among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live

you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous

in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea

whenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let you sister Scorn not leave you

for the informers executioners cowards—they will win

they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth

the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power

to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride

keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror

repeat: I was called—weren't there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring

the bird with an unknown name the winter oak

light on a wall the splendor of the sky

they don't need your warm breath

they are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go

as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star

repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends

because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain

repeat great words repeat them stubbornly

like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand

with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way you will be admitted to the company of cold skulls

to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland

the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

(Translations by John and Bogdana Carpenter/ Illustration: Roman Comedy and Tragedy masks)

Interplanetary Cruises; Europa's Festival of Lights

By Elizabeth George

(This is a brochure that my daughter, Elizabeth, did for her Earth Sciences course last year. For me, the piece has a lot of metaphysical resonance. Aside from being fun, it also stirs up memories.)

Interplanetary Cruises™

Presents:  

Europa’s Festival of Lights™

Once every twelve years, the Meeya Meephla of Europa enact one of their most sacred and joyous rituals, the Festival of Lights, “jnsdjewi vn2i3hr;lm;wmef!!!!in!!their “ in their telepathic language. 

During this exotic festival, the gentle, gigantic, disk-shaped Meeya Meephla, whether young or old, single or paired, pull out all the stops as they compete in artistic displays of the most spectacular bioluminescent light shows this side of the galaxy. 

You will board the luxurious Celestial Star solar sail ship at Earthport and after a glorious two weeks of delicious food and fun activities, you will be safely flash-frozen for the remainder of the trip to Europa. Upon arrival, you will experience our signature full spa treatment defrosting and rehabilitation, that will leave you feeling relaxed and rejuvenated, and ready for the next leg of your journey… descent through Europa’s  scenic sixty-mile ice layer into the moon’s  tranquil inner sea.

While in orbit around Europa, you will have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to observe Jupiter’s Great Red Spot-a hurricane of unimaginable power and fury.  (Sightseeing trips to Io and Ganymede are also available at additional cost.) You will board the Europa Explorer, a state of the art vehicle capable of melting through miles of ice and then traveling through the silent saline depths of the moon’s interior.  Though compact, the Europa Explorer was designed for the comfort and convenience of its passengers. Warm baths of Europa’s mineral rich ocean water will be provided, as will beverages flavored and colored with the Meeya Meephlas’ favorite luminous bacterial slime. Drink enough of it and you too may become phosphorescent! 

From the large unobstructed cabin windows you will see the gathering of the Meeya Meephla by clan, color, and temperament, followed by the grand procession into the competition space. Earthwords can’t describe the wryness, the majesty, the pure imaginative genius of the competition displays!  Incorporating the best of dance, light painting, martial arts and epic poetry, the beauty of the Festival of Lights ensures that you will never be the same again.  The hospitality of the Meeya Meephla will astonish you. Europa’s natives are truly the gentle giants of the Solar System and their “hearts” are as big as their disks. They welcome Earthfolks with all of their many open arms…all they ask is that you leave their world as clean as you found it, and keep unimaginative thoughts to yourself. 

The Europa Festival of Lights™ Cruise leaves Earthport on March 1^st, 3010 and returns on June 1^st, 3013. Cost for a single fare is five megacredits, in advance.

Please note: You will have the opportunity to purchase professionally made recordings of the entire festival or individual performances in dreamy or audi-visi formats.

C:\Users\owner\Documents\Cruise leaves Earthport  on March 1st.docx