Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Shadow of Babel

By Brian George

Unspeakable the force! From it illegal aliens have made a tower fit for gods. DNA was the staircase. It was built by 64. At an angle to the basin where 3 rivers congregate, the 8 climbed high. Moebius played games with our perception of geometry.  

You could not see the height from the depth or each side from the other.

It was Nimrod who first proposed that the tower should be translucent. As at once flying up and down, the walls were the interdependent letters of all alphabets. Only later could they be read as physical forms. Flame would soon become bored with the creation of new letters. Actions would soon harden into difficult to juggle blocks. And still, the tower rose.  

You could not see the height from the depth or each side from the other.

Was there dissension in the 1 world language?  

Yes, as to whether the forgetfulness arose because of you; as to which of many laws were broken. It appears that your accuser looks just like you. As if you did not exist, your family will walk straight through the shadow that you project. Your job was to carry building blocks. Your job was to put your shoulder to the wheel, not to violate the secrecy of the Ur-Text, or to renovate its grammar. Your family will walk straight through you.

They are scared to speak your name. You are just a visitor—no longer an inhabitant.

You have dared to revolt against the work of the Nephillim! Their eyes are large. You most certainly will feel their wrath.

You are a beast whose blood must be disinfected before use by the Nephillim. They are the masters of the knife that heals. The eyes of the omnipotent are large. You as subject are only an imaginary object. Are you not a part of nature? You are chaff—that ritual violence is to separate from wheat.

No hand can oppose the erection of the supernatural tower!

It was hard to experience how great the structure was—and afterwards to live. Its shadow was gigantic. The shadow cast by speech was longer than the tongue itself was tall. It was longer than the oldest bird among them could imagine.

As they approached climax, the 10 expanded beyond count. 8 aimed their weapons at the boundary of a sphere. 52 fished relics from the ocean.

The eyes of omnipotent are large. Madness clouds them. The Nephillim were not immune from time, or from the arc of devolution. In defense of the one language they declared war on the floodplain. Indigenous populations suffered. They always do. Builders did not care how many of the human race got broken.

The sky would burn. Toxins would soon darken the pure blood of the omnipotent.

They had not yet cut the Ur Text into sentences. They did not yet desire to micromanage History, which would shrink them. They did not yet acknowledge humans as their parents.

They had not yet removed their artificial breasts. They had not withdrawn the phallus of their technology from the Earth. Wheat sprouted from the black mud of the floodplain. Shadows flew into hungry mouths. Communication between the many worlds was great. In a conscious dream I balanced on a cross-brace of the tower. “Poof,” I said.

This chronicle has been re-imagined—by a self inhabiting the slow return of a myth. I—the sperm that broke the first egg of the world—was there, when the tower danced from the tongues of the magicians. I remember just enough.

(Illustration: Mario Sironi)

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