Part 27 (1/2)

”All hail these b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.king beautiful roses,” an Oxfordian voice contributed.

”All hail these b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.king beautiful roses,” all agreed.

Miss Mao arose. ”The Pope is the chief cause of Protestantism,” she recited softly.

That was another roaring success; everybody chorused, and one Harlem voice added, ”Right on!” on!”

”Capitalism is the chief cause of socialism,” Miss Mao chanted, more confident. That went over well, too, and she then tried, ”The State is the chief cause of anarchism,” which was another smas.h.i.+ng success.

”Prisons are built with the stones of law, brothels with the bricks of religion,” Miss Mao went on.

”PRISONS ARE BUILT WITH THE STONES OF LAW, BROTHELS WITH THE BRICKS OF RELIGION,” the hall boomed.

”I stole that last one from William Blake,” Miss Mao said quietly and sat down.

”Any others?” Hagbard asked. There was none, so he went on after a moment, ”Very well, then, I will preach my weekly sermon.”

”b.a.l.l.s!” cried a Texas voice.

”Bulls.h.i.+t!” added a Brazilian female.

Hagbard frowned. ”That wasn't much of a demonstration,” he commented sadly. ”Are the rest of you so pa.s.sive that you're just going to sit here on your dead a.s.ses and let me bore the p.i.s.s out of you?”

The Texan, the Brazilian lady and a few others got up. ”We are going to have an orgy,” the Brazilian said briefly, and they left.

”Well, sink me, I'm glad there's some life left on this old tub,” Hagbard grinned. ”As for the rest of you- who can tell me, without uttering a word, the fallacy of the Illuminati?”

A young girl-she was no more than fifteen, George guessed, and the youngest member of the crew; he had heard she was a runaway from a fabulously rich Italian family in Rome-slowly raised her hand and clenched her fist.

Hagbard turned on her furiously. ”How many times must I tell you people: no faking! You got that out of some cheap book on Zen that neither the author nor you understood a d.a.m.ned word of. I hate to be dictatorial, but phony mysticism is the one thing Discordianism can't survive. You're on s.h.i.+twork, in the kitchen for a week, you wise-a.s.s brat.”

The girl remained immobile, in the same position, fist raised, and only slowly did George read the slight smile that curled her mouth. Then he started to smile himself.

Hagbard lowered his eyes for a second and gave a Sicilian shrug. ”O oi che siete in piccioletta barca,” ”O oi che siete in piccioletta barca,” he said softly, and bowed. ”I'm still in charge of nautical and technical matters,” he announced, ”but Miss Portinari now succeeds me as he said softly, and bowed. ”I'm still in charge of nautical and technical matters,” he announced, ”but Miss Portinari now succeeds me as episkopos episkopos of the of the Leif Erikson Leif Erikson cabal. Anyone with lingering spiritual or psychological problems, take them to her.” He lunged across the room, hugged the girl, laughed with her happily for a moment and placed his golden apple ring on her finger. ”Now I don't have to meditate every day,” he shouted joyously, ”and I'll have more time for some thinking.” cabal. Anyone with lingering spiritual or psychological problems, take them to her.” He lunged across the room, hugged the girl, laughed with her happily for a moment and placed his golden apple ring on her finger. ”Now I don't have to meditate every day,” he shouted joyously, ”and I'll have more time for some thinking.”

In the next two days, as the Leif Erikson Leif Erikson slowly crossed the Sea of Valusia and approached the Danube, George discovered that Hagbard had, indeed, put all his mystical trappings behind him. He spoke only of technical matters concerning the submarine, or other mundane subjects, and was sublimely unconcerned with the role-playing, role-changing and other mind-blowing tactics that had previously made up his persona. What emerged-the new Hagbard, or the old Hagbard of days before his adoption of guru-hood-was a tough, pragmatic, middle-aged engineer, with wide intelligence and interests, an overwhelming kindness and generosity, and many small symptoms of nervousness, anxiety and overwork. But mostly he seemed happy, and George realized that the euphoria derived from his having dropped an enormous burden. slowly crossed the Sea of Valusia and approached the Danube, George discovered that Hagbard had, indeed, put all his mystical trappings behind him. He spoke only of technical matters concerning the submarine, or other mundane subjects, and was sublimely unconcerned with the role-playing, role-changing and other mind-blowing tactics that had previously made up his persona. What emerged-the new Hagbard, or the old Hagbard of days before his adoption of guru-hood-was a tough, pragmatic, middle-aged engineer, with wide intelligence and interests, an overwhelming kindness and generosity, and many small symptoms of nervousness, anxiety and overwork. But mostly he seemed happy, and George realized that the euphoria derived from his having dropped an enormous burden.

Miss Portinari, meanwhile, had lost the self-effacing quality that made her so eminently forgettable before, and, from the moment Hagbard pa.s.sed her the ring, she was as remote and gnomic as an Etruscan sybil. George, in fact, found that he was a little afraid of her-an annoying sensation, since he thought he had transcended fear when he found that the Robot was, left to itself, neither cowardly nor homicidal.

George tried to discuss his feelings with Hagbard once, when they happened to be seated together at dinner on April 28. ”I don't know where my- head is at anymore,” he said tentatively.

”Well, in the immortal words of Marx, putta your hat on your neck, then,” Hagbard grinned.

”No, seriously,” George murmured as Hagbard hacked at a steak. ”I don't feel really awakened or enlightened or whatever. I feel like K. in The Castle: The Castle: I've seen it once, but I don't know how to get back there.” I've seen it once, but I don't know how to get back there.”

”Why do you want want to get back?” Hagbard asked. ”I'm d.a.m.ned glad to be out of it all. It's harder work than coal mining.” He munched placidly, obviously bored by the direction of the conversation. to get back?” Hagbard asked. ”I'm d.a.m.ned glad to be out of it all. It's harder work than coal mining.” He munched placidly, obviously bored by the direction of the conversation.

”That's not true,” George protested. ”Part of you is still there, and always will be. You've just given up being a guide for others.”

”I'm trying trying to give up,” Hagbard said pointedly. ”Some people seem to be trying to reenlist me. Sorry. I'm not a German shepherd or a draftee. to give up,” Hagbard said pointedly. ”Some people seem to be trying to reenlist me. Sorry. I'm not a German shepherd or a draftee. Non serviam Non serviam, George.”

George fiddled with his own steak for a minute, then tried another approach. ”What was that Italian phrase you used, just before you gave your ring to Miss Portinari?”

”I couldn't think of anything else to say,” Hagbard explained, embarra.s.sed. ”So, as usual with me, I got arty and pretentious. Dante addresses his readers, in the First Canto of the Paradiso, 'O voi che siete in piccioletta barca' Paradiso, 'O voi che siete in piccioletta barca'-roughly, Oh, you who are sailing in a very small boat astern of me. He meant that the readers, not having had the Vision, couldn't really understand his words. I turned it around, 'O oi che siete in piccioletta barca,' 'O oi che siete in piccioletta barca,' admitting I was behind her in understanding. I should get the Ezra Pound Award for hiding emotion in tangled erudition. That's why I'm glad to give up the guru gig. I never was much better than second-rate at it.” admitting I was behind her in understanding. I should get the Ezra Pound Award for hiding emotion in tangled erudition. That's why I'm glad to give up the guru gig. I never was much better than second-rate at it.”

”Well, I'm still way astern of you ...” you ...” George began. George began.

”Look,” Hagbard growled. ”I'm a tired engineer at the end of a long day. Can't we talk about something less taxing to my depleted brain? What do you think of the economic system I outline in the second part of Never Whistle While You're p.i.s.sing? Never Whistle While You're p.i.s.sing? I've decided to start calling it techno-anarchism; do you think that's more clear at first sight than anarcho-capitalism?” I've decided to start calling it techno-anarchism; do you think that's more clear at first sight than anarcho-capitalism?”

And George found himself, frustrated, engaged in a long discussion of non-interest-bearing currencies, land stewards.h.i.+p replacing land owners.h.i.+p, the inability of monopoly capitalism to adjust to abundance, and other matters which would have interested him a week ago but now were very unimportant compared to the question which Zen masters phrased as ”getting the goose out of the bottle without breaking the gla.s.s”-or specifically, getting George Dorn out of ”George Dorn” without destroying GEORGE DORN.

That night, Mavis came again to his bed, and George said again, ”No. Not until you love me the way I love you.”

”You're turning into a stiff-necked prig,” Mavis said. ”Don't try to walk before you can crawl.”

”Listen,” George cried. ”Suppose our society crippled every infant's legs systematically, instead of our minds? The ones who tried to get up and walk would be called neurotics, right? And the awkwardness of their first efforts would be published in the all psychiatric journals as proof of the regressive and schizzy nature of their unsocial and unnatural impulse toward walking, right? And those of you who know the secret would be superior and aloof and tell us to wait, be patient, you'll let us in on it in your own good time, right? c.r.a.p. I'm going to do it on my own.”

”I'm not holding anything back,” Mavis said gently. ”There's no field until both both poles are charged.” poles are charged.”

”And I'm the dead pole? Go to h.e.l.l and bake bagels.”

After Mavis left, Stella arrived, wearing cute Chinese pajamas. ”h.o.r.n.y?” she asked bluntly.

”Christ Almighty, yes!”

In ninety seconds they were naked and he was nibbling at her ear while his hand rubbed her pubic mat; but a saboteur was at work at his brain. ”I love you,” he thought, and it was not untrue because he loved all women now, knowing partially what s.e.x was really all about, but he couldn't bring himself to say it because it was not totally true, either, since he loved Mavis more, much more. ”I'm awfully fond of you,” he almost said, but the absurdity of it stopped him. Her hand cupped his c.o.c.k and found it limp; her eyes opened and looked into his enquiringly. He kissed her lips quickly and moved his hand lower, inserting a finger until he found the c.l.i.toris. But even when her breathing got deeper, he did not respond as usual, and her hand began ma.s.saging his c.o.c.k more desperately. He slid down, kissing nipples and bellyb.u.t.ton on the way, and began licking her c.l.i.toris. As soon as she came, he cupped her b.u.t.tocks, lifted her pelvis, got his tongue into her v.a.g.i.n.a and forced another quick o.r.g.a.s.m, immediately lowering her slightly again and beginning a very gentle and slow return in spiral fas.h.i.+on back to the c.l.i.toris. But still he was flaccid.

”Stop,” Stella breathed. ”Let me do you, baby.”

George moved upward on the bed and hugged her. ”I love you,” he said, and suddenly it did not sound like a lie.

Stella giggled and kissed his mouth briefly. ”It takes a lot to get those words out of you, doesn't it?” she said bemusedly.

”Honesty is the worst policy,” George said grimly. ”I was a child prodigy, you know? A freak. It was rugged. I had to have some defense, and somehow I picked honesty. I was always with older boys so I never won a fight. The only way I could feel superior, or escape total inferiority, was to be the most honest b.a.s.t.a.r.d on the planet earth.”

”So you can't say 'I love you' unless you mean it?” Stella laughed. ”You're probably the only man in America with that that problem. If you could only be a woman for a while, baby! You can't imagine what liars most men are.” problem. If you could only be a woman for a while, baby! You can't imagine what liars most men are.”

”Oh, I've said it at times. When it was at least half true. But it always sounded like play-acting to me, and I felt it sounded that way to the woman, too. This time it it just came out, perfectly natural, no effort.” just came out, perfectly natural, no effort.”

”That is is something,” Stella grinned. ”And I can't let it go unrewarded.” Her black body slid downward and he enjoyed the esthetic effect as his eyes followed her-black on white, like the something,” Stella grinned. ”And I can't let it go unrewarded.” Her black body slid downward and he enjoyed the esthetic effect as his eyes followed her-black on white, like the yin-yang yin-yang or the Sacred Chao-what was the psychoses of the white race that made this beauty seem ugly to most of them? Then her lips closed over his p.e.n.i.s and he found that the words had loosened the knot: he was erect in a second. He closed his eyes to savor the sensation, then opened them to look down at her Afro hairdo, her serious dark face, his c.o.c.k slipping back and forth between her lips. ”I love you,” he repeated, with even more conviction. ”Oh, Christ, Oh, Eris, oh baby baby, I love you!” He closed his eyes again, and let the Robot move his pelvis in response to her. ”Oh, stop,” he said, ”stop,” drawing her upward and turning her over, ”together,” he said, mounting her, ”together,” as her eyes closed when he entered her and then opened again for a moment meeting his in total tenderness, ”I love you, Stella, I love,” and he knew it was so far along that the weight wouldn't bother her, collapsing, using his arms to hug her, not supporting himself, belly to belly and breast to breast, her arms hugging him also and her voice saying, ”I love you, too, oh, I love you,” and moving with it, saying ”angel” and ”darling” and then saying nothing, the explosion and the light again permeating his whole body not just the p.e.n.i.s, a pa.s.sing through the mandala to the other side and a long sleep. or the Sacred Chao-what was the psychoses of the white race that made this beauty seem ugly to most of them? Then her lips closed over his p.e.n.i.s and he found that the words had loosened the knot: he was erect in a second. He closed his eyes to savor the sensation, then opened them to look down at her Afro hairdo, her serious dark face, his c.o.c.k slipping back and forth between her lips. ”I love you,” he repeated, with even more conviction. ”Oh, Christ, Oh, Eris, oh baby baby, I love you!” He closed his eyes again, and let the Robot move his pelvis in response to her. ”Oh, stop,” he said, ”stop,” drawing her upward and turning her over, ”together,” he said, mounting her, ”together,” as her eyes closed when he entered her and then opened again for a moment meeting his in total tenderness, ”I love you, Stella, I love,” and he knew it was so far along that the weight wouldn't bother her, collapsing, using his arms to hug her, not supporting himself, belly to belly and breast to breast, her arms hugging him also and her voice saying, ”I love you, too, oh, I love you,” and moving with it, saying ”angel” and ”darling” and then saying nothing, the explosion and the light again permeating his whole body not just the p.e.n.i.s, a pa.s.sing through the mandala to the other side and a long sleep.

The next morning, he and Stella f.u.c.ked some more, wildly and joyously; they said ”I love you” so many times that it became a new mantra to him, and they were still whispering at breakfast. The problem of Mavis and the problem of reaching total enlightenment had both vanished from his mind. Enjoying bacon and eggs that seemed tastier than he had ever eaten before, exchanging pointless and very private jokes with Stella, George Dorn was at peace.

(But nine hours earlier, at that ”same” time, the Kachinas gathered in the center of the oldest city in North America, Orabi, and began a dance which an excited visiting anthropologist had never seen before. As he questioned various old men and old women among the People of Peace-which is what ho-pi ho-pi means-he found that the dance was dedicated to She-Woman-Forever-Not-Change. He knew enough not to try to convert that t.i.tle into his own grammar, since it represented an important aspect of the Hopi philosophy of Time, which is much like the Simon Moon and Adam Weishaupt philosophies of Time and nothing like what physics students learn, at least until they reach graduate level studies. Only four times, he was told, had this dance ever been necessary: four times when the many worlds were all in danger, and this was the time of the fifth and greatest danger. The anthropologist, who happened to be a Hindu named Indole Ringh, quickly jotted in his notebook: ”Cf. four yugas in means-he found that the dance was dedicated to She-Woman-Forever-Not-Change. He knew enough not to try to convert that t.i.tle into his own grammar, since it represented an important aspect of the Hopi philosophy of Time, which is much like the Simon Moon and Adam Weishaupt philosophies of Time and nothing like what physics students learn, at least until they reach graduate level studies. Only four times, he was told, had this dance ever been necessary: four times when the many worlds were all in danger, and this was the time of the fifth and greatest danger. The anthropologist, who happened to be a Hindu named Indole Ringh, quickly jotted in his notebook: ”Cf. four yugas in Upanishads Upanishads, Wagadu legend in Sudan, and Marsh's queer notions about Atlantis. This could be big.” The dance went on, the drums pounded monotonously, and Carmel, far away, broke into a sudden perspiration ...) And, in Los Angeles, John Dillinger calmly loaded his revolver, dropped it in his briefcase and set a Panama hat on his neatly combed silver-gray hair. He was humming a song from his youth: ”Those wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine ...” I hope that pimp is where Hagbard says, he thought; I've only got eighteen hours before they declare martial law ... ”Good-bye forever,” he hummed on, ”old fellows and pals ...”

I saw the fnords the same day I first heard about the plastic martini. Let me be very clear and precise about this, since many of the people on this trip are deliberately and perversely obscure: I would not, could not could not, have seen the fnords if Hagbard Celine hadn't hypnotized me the night before, on the flying saucer.

I had been reading Pat Walsh's memos, at home, and listening to a new record from the Museum of Natural History. I was adding a few new samples to my collection of Was.h.i.+ngton-Weishaupt pictures on the wall, when the saucer appeared hovering outside my window. Needless to say, it didn't particularly surprise me; I had saved a little of the AUM, after Chicago, contrary to the instructions from ELF, and had dosed myself. After meeting the Dealy Lama, not to mention Malaclypse the Elder, and seeing that nut Celine actually talk to gorillas, I a.s.sumed my mind was a point of receptivity where the AUM would trigger something truly original. The UFO, in fact, was a bit of a letdown; so many people had seen them already, and I was ready for something n.o.body had ever seen or imagined.

It was even more a disappointment when they psyched me, or slurped me aboard, and I found, instead of Martians or Insect Trust delegates from the Crab Galaxy, just Hagbard, Stella Maris and a few other people from the Leif Erikson Leif Erikson.