I Left at Dawn for the Eternal City; It Seems that I Have Misplaced Several Days/ Part 9

By Brian George

Hallucinations erupt from the red ocean; it is dawn

In presenting this alternate view of the “Apocalypse,” of an end that opens the door to a perpetual beginning, I have used, as a convenient frame of reference, the concepts of the “horizontal” and the “vertical” axes; in turn, this provides us with a method of speaking about space—of moving up and down, as well as in and out. Each direction will lead us eventually to the circumference of a sphere—a sphere that can also be imagined as a point, as a pair of intersecting triangles, as a 10-D torus, or as a 64 cube tetrahedron.

This sphere is both our destination and the vehicle that we must activate; it will take us from where we are to where we have never ceased to exist.

Let us “fix” the world—by letting space implode; in the eye of the storm will test the explosive power of the small. If we travel far enough and fast enough in the direction that we are going, we will at some point overtake our alternate versions from behind.  To them, we will seem to be arriving from the future, or from a past whose depth subverts all current archeological theory. Who knows what each will think of the other’s odd appearance?

Once, the Great Year set up oars along the coast, to mark each spot where our surrogates had been buried, facing east. No trauma could remove the sun from before their eyes; however much tectonic plates have been—as if by accident—rearranged. Pangaea is a puzzle; there will always be pieces missing. For without such a catastrophe there would be no “primal schism.”

To the 1-inch city will return the storytellers—good to go!—from all of the cultures that a wave has carried off.

In one frame of reference, I am looking down and backwards at the Earth—at the fossil known as “Brian George”; he is little more than fuel. In an alternate frame of reference, I am standing like a new-born child on the Earth, feet bare, and with an ocean where my head should be; I am looking up and outwards at the clockwork of the Macrocosm—now once again translucent.

“Breath by breath”—I say to no one in particular—“we will sink our yogic drill-bits into History! By the power of our austerities we will renovate the Zero; one size will again fit all.” The music of the spheres becomes cacophonous, and then stops. As I stare, an atomic power plant half-materializes on a cloud; its warning signs flash, and lightning fills the air with the aroma of burnt ozone. The dark energy of omnipotence moves in for the kill.


(Illustration: Enzo Cucchi)