PROJECT MAYHEM ON TOPIC POST!
Don't I know it, Lucia Joyce agreed.
I am HE, Crowley chanted suddenly drawing their attention again. The Bornless Spirit having sight in the feet Strong and immortal fire Who hate that evil should be wrought in the world He that lightning and thundereth He whose mouth ever flameth He from whom is the shower of life
on Earth
A true initiation never ends.
Dare to struggle, dare to win, shouted Lenin.
Dare to guzzle Gordon's gin, Joyce added.
Je suis Bovary, Flaubert said looking embarrassed.
Je suis Molly Bloom, Joyce said unembarrassed.
The Master Masons chanted over the Neanderthal fire:
For of the Father and the Son
The Holy Spirit is the norm
Male-female, quintessential, one
Man-being veiled in womanform
Glory and worship be to Thee
Sap of the world-ash, wonder-tree!
I think, Joyce said, that we have somehow been mutated from symbolic verbal consciousness to total body awareness. Is that it?
That is certainly part of it, Einstein agreed thoughtfully. But there is an element also of direct brain consciousness, is there not? It seems to me that you should understand Relativity better now, because I certainly understand it better than I ever did.
But the table, Joyce said. My God, the table.
What about the table? Einstein asked.
We're inside it, Joyce said.
Yes. . . Einstein said softly. . . that's it. We're inside It and It is inside us. There's a bridge. . .
My God, Joyce said. Yes.
In the material universe, Einstein said happily, the smaller is always inside the larger. But in the mental universe. . . mein Gott. . . the larger can be inside the smaller. That's what thought is. . . We are as big as whatever we perceive and conceive. . . It's a mobius strip. . .
Glory to thee from gilded tomb, resounded the voice of Tim Finnegan.
Glory to thee from waiting womb, chanted Molly Bloom.
Glory to thee from earth unploughed, cried Osiris.
Glory to thee from virgin vowed, sang Isis.
The cross becomes a phallus.
The phallas becomes a cross.
The cross becomes a whirling sun.
Two owls and a hen, said King Lear, Three crows and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard.
They were moving toward Zero.
My God it's the Black Hole, Schwartzchild cried.
The entrance to Hell, Babcock said.
The Cup of Our Lady, Crowley corrected them.
It became an enormous pulsating doughnut. Joyce laughed.
Nine months to get out, he said, and the rest of our fool lives trying to get back in again. . .
The doughnut became the spinning galaxy.
"Have we really been sitting here," Joyce asked finally, "laughing like fools for three or four hours?"
"Something like that," Einstein said.
"Is it over yet?" Babcock asked.
"I don't think so," Joyce replied. "Do you see what I see?"