NeverEnder – Space Epic Poem
The Perennial Philosophy
Gravity. Exocytosis. Be like the flow
of water. A vessel to build the gate of
history to cross the boundary of time.
For that, buy a ticket for the museyroom.
“mind your steps, koan-in. The three
muses at knossos; the griffin is tethered
to the column in the Great Eastern Hall.”
Arjuna: “How shall Deva and Titan
know all the extent of your glory?”
Sri Krishna: “I am the Atman that
dwells in the heart of every mortal
creature.” Not to fight for gain or
loss. Now if the Maras come greedily
loping, the earth shall be my witness.“I
am the OM and the practice of mantra.”
So here we are, at the entrance of the
Archive of Myth, along with Carl Jung,
Aristotle and Marlon Brando. It appears
that the child Woody Allen was wrong.
The universe is not expanding. New data
has come in, gravitational drag exerts the
light, and so the cosmos red-shifts gear.
Krishna, Krishna! What have you to say
on the matter? Sean C has built himself
a high-resolution telescope, and stationed
at his hermit-base on Planet Vashisht, he
pores over the cytoplasmic fractals.
“I am afraid I can’t really report on anything
other than a ‘trifle difficult’, as a West Ham
supporter once put it. But, never the less,
riverrun, is the joy[ce]ful word. And so
“they all fell silent. O Queen of Carthage,
the sorrow that you bid me to bring to life
again is buried” at Amphipolis, and in the
shallow waters of the holy island of Delos,
where our Gods Apollo and Artemis were
born, a mischievious, ingenious joke that
Oðinn would never approve of. Huang-Po
argues for neither attachment to, nor
detachment from that R data.frame that
you have been tampering with, dearReader.
R being a meta-language, it is apt for us to
introduce our memory trip down binary lane,
so as to open the Archive of myth. In the ca
pital mud-city of the bastard race of the North
we shall visit the museyroom, downloadable
from the solar-system-wide-web (SSWW)
for parallel enjoyment on Titan, Europa,
Vashisht, Poseidon, Uranus, Fear, et cetera.
“On the red shift of spectral lines through
interstellar space”, light quantum will change
its energy, and therefore its frequency. More
narrative oscillations. So, as previously stated,
the narrative is a trifle truffle, mostly due to
gravitational lensing, so excuse moi.
So let us set it right. At the rotational spiritual
gallery spinning on the OORT cloud, on this day
(calculated in relation to Neptune’s primary)
six hundred and forty thousand thirty six and
a bit since an arbitrarily chosen threshold,
Fortune Lobo landed (more aptly, watered)
on Poseidon’s water-ammonia ocean. That is,
without being disintegrated. ‘Tis obvious ‘coz
he was wearing a gravitational suit. And a lot
of more clothing (there is no such thing as bad
weather, only bad clothing). Having said that,
the windy conditions on Poseidon are a tiny bit
adverse, to put it mildly, I don’t know about
superionic water or deep-down diamond oceans,
but there is a breeze at 2000 km/h. Nothing to
Put off a ship of the Griffinese (who are used to
changing weather conditions). FL found this ship
moored in solitude, and an old nostr’omo sailor,
memorying his days with Garibaldi, and his love
on the island of Victory (where diamonds are turned
into graphite), or even his journey into the heart
of darkness, along a snake of a river, down to the
still to the first immobile motor mount, the crossing
of the shadow-line. The old sailor, or (in Teesan-speak)
the ancient mariner, had eyes of sorrow (panda eyes)
and told strange tales of distant archaea colonies, and
further back into imaginary time, where p-branes are
created equal, and may or may not look like a torus.
now on the ring-some aqua-face of planet Poseidon,
the ancient mariner stood (floated) and told tales of
Troy (what else), of the fall of Finnegan, of Christie’s
bad debt’s final balance, and “horror, the soul of the
[ Ligeia ] plot.” Now as the Archive of Myth is being
opened (excavated on planet what’s his name) by Dr
Gawain and Mr Monkey…
… it becomes clear that Horror is the only apocalyptic
realm yet to be invaded by the White Plague. And yet,
it shall never be conquered. It is not in the nature of the
accountancy infection, whatever its tuberculotic
form, to be able to penetrate the Horror, and the
Moral Terror (ipse dixit, Mr Marlon). And old
story, written on the West Wind, reminds us of how
the mighty themselves might fall at the hands of the
spiritooal white plague and how only in Grecian Urn
immortality one may finally find rest:
“From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
with sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.”
Arjuna: “Suppose a man has faith, but does not
struggle hard enough” […] “Is he not lost, as a
broken cloud is lost in the sky?”
Sri Krishna: “No, my son. That man is not lost.
No one who seeks the Brahman ever comes to
an evil end.”
Siddharta under the tree, assaulted by the King
of Passions, touched the earth with his finger
(without sticking it into a jar of jam, that is).
The earth, the only witness of the heart, the
rotten heart on weeping clay. “For it is according
to nature, and nothing is evil which is according
to nature.” This is in Carnuntum.
“But”, interjects Fortune Lobo in a leap of faith,
the Carnuntum planet is so far away, how can I
ever reach the Pannonia galaxy and see it?
“Well, try tampering with black hole entropy”,
Sean C smart-asses in sub-speak, while sipping
cola somewhere on the side of the mountain.
This narrative is concerned with memory.
Memory is that thing that, when you wait
long enough, it becomes legend, and then
myth. But Baku, dream-eater spirit,
please do not devour all of our hopes
and our myths. Please Baku-san only
eat our night-mares. The ancient dreams,
the spirit-formations and the mythical
stories, please do not touch. We call our
past time echoes dreams or myths
because we can’t bear to remember them.
at least half of the time, it is too painful.
and yet, the sorrow and the pain is there
for a reason, so why should one just forget
why should one just erase the past? The
echoes call down the drain of history, and
so “draw down the vengeange of [planet]
Poseidon” (the ancient mariner speaks),
“for Cetus and Medusa, though sinless,
have been defeated. Following the tale
of the first whaleman (a certain Perseus),
a mirror-shield, gold-winged sandals, a
sword, and a helm to defeat visibility
are here presented to you, Fortune Lobo.
Remember, gravity is a distortion of space-time.
Don’t forget to close your eyes before
you drink the quintessence and you listen
to the echoes of the dark energy.”
“It is unseen because it is colourless;
it is unheard because it is soundless,
when seeking to grasp it, it eludes one,
because it is incorporeal”, a bit like an
electron. “So down the Old Kent galaxy
highway, down to Planet Canterbury,
walking in pilgrimage along empty void
(’tis a bit chilly) using a void-craft (as
opposed to air-), leaving the old capital
of the mud, walking from the Abbey of
Cluny at Veremundsei (satellite of the
city), flying off in space toward Pocahontas
‘s final resting place (what bad luck)”, the
ancient mariner contines to tell his tale
about how he sailed from the mud-harbour
past the Roman watch-tower destroyed
by a greedy Wapping developer (barbarians),
past the public bar owned by the artist of
light, and on toward the heart of darkness
deep into the cosmic jungle, where the
diamonds in the sky tell tales of the Congo
river, and the Pleiades listen (finally) to
“I was a whaler, like Perseus before me,
and like David Mamet, whose wind-chill
factor has haunted my intergalactic treks.
Hence I heeded his advice, and I bought
myself a gun.” Fortune Lobo listens while
looking out into the full blast hailstone sho
wers which rain down with full speed
over the methane-hued cloud-sea thinge.
But condensation in his mind is mirrored
by the liquid rise of Poseidon’s angry emotions.
Back at the Labrys harbour, Desert Storm still
reflects on the inverted big cypresses, the
brown wood alabaster, and the architecture of
lambda. In the riton, the oil, the water, the
spice and other offerings for Gods who have
been sleeping for far too long.
“From my grand father Marcus Antoninus”,
continues the ancient mariner, “I have learned
good morals and the government of my temper.
I was there at La Canea and Rettimo, and so
during the siege of Planet Candia (what a fight).
I fought alongside friends at Marathon, but
I ran at Lepanto and at Thermopylae (one
has just enough courage to fill an urn of ash).
So forgive me but my ashes are not kept in
a tray in the San Giovanni e Paolo cathedral
of the Veal city capital. My friend Marco Antonio
has not been so lucky.” Fortune Lobo wonders
about where all this is going. “Friend [dearReader]
you call yourself a Wolf of Fortune, perhaps
even a SteppenWolf. Have you perchance
been raised on the steppes of Scythia?
Were you born at the gates of Ἀλεξάνδρεια
Ἐσχάτη ? Since you have been asking for
a mission, God (for your grins) gave you one.”
Fortune Lobo is unimpressed.
“Who is this God of whom you talk?”
The ancient mariner continues: “Your
mission is to find the outer reaches of this
uni-verse, to meet the lovely forms of
Andromeda (a galactic beauty), and to
carry the οὐροβόρος ὄφις talisman on
which one of the two snakes agrees to
the following statement: Tu, was du willst.
You need to carry that talisman past the
Ishtar gate, and move on well into the
unknown, past the ufos that have been
haunting Jung’s dream. You will need
to travel back across the Tartaros empti
ness, back toward Chaos (a rather large
primordial God), and then when you get
there, ask Ginnunga a few tough questions.
For example, I would start with, will there
ever be another Herakles (or a morning)?
Will Ahura Mazda ever reconcile its daena
with that of Pallas Athena (in spite of Thaïs),
and perhaps by way of the Spartan IF. Others
abide the question. Thou art free. We ask and
ask… Fortune Lobo, hear me. I know you do
not understand what I am saying to you. But
beware, the east and the west of your mind
are divided by the word ‘guzastag’, and you
shall need to bring them back together.
As you travel to explore the Greek End
and the Japanese Start of this ubi-verse;
that is thy mission, thy curse, thy blessing,
thy riddle of the sphinx.” Fortune Lobo
waits, waits; his mind travels back to the
ebb, the tremulous cadence slow, the
eternal note of sadness of the waves
blown back, before human voices wake
us. From the ebb of Neptune’s oceans
arises an oscillation of unknown source
“But the Buddha answered, what thou
bidd’st me keep is form which passes
but the free Truth stands; Get thee unto
Mean while, Monkey is delving deeper
into the deep, the inverted Murakamian
well gave rise, on Uranus, to the cloud-murk
and the sky where emotion somersault
is so thick that painters across the galaxy
draw colour from it across space-time portals.
Chubby is alone on Titan, wandering in the
zen garden steppes, sand dunes where the winds
blow in opposing directions, forming a kind
of momentary Japanese effect, making her
think of those Huygens probe painters of
Tokyo, whose depiction of the channels
and lakes of liquid ethane and methane
scattered across Titan’s surface convey
(through the means of an immobile art)
the sense of Wildean switness and motion.
The dim roar of the mind is like a distant
note on the feline cat’s intellectual organ.
According to Chubby’s calculations,
the wind reverses twice during a Saturn
year. This is equal to about thirty Earth
years. When the sun crosses over the
equator, the reversal causes a shift in the
atmosphere (and so the winds). The dunes
are shaped only during this brief time of
fast winds blowing from the Shelleyan West.
It is a bit lonely now on Titan, on the
shores of lake Distress, since Sean C
has permanently vacated the premises.
Chubby has a secret (or more than one).
She is one of the last remaining survivors
of the Laconian school (or Laconic). The
world, the ubi-verse have been taken by
storm by the alumni of the Athenian school,
but Laconia still has voice to put it bluntly.
Pithy, they say. Raffaello Sanzio, painter
of the Apartment(s). Tiziano Vecellio,
painter of Dionysus and Ariadne, as well
as Artemis and Actaeon. These two among
many others are students of the school
of Pallas Athena. Chubby, the cat within
Reason has invited Ahura Mazda (fellow
feline) for drinking tea at her place on Titan.
They will start with a chat about the ifs
and the buts, and then move on to
μολὼν λαβέ, and on to a full scale
debate of philosophy. Among the
topics of conversation, we have
Zarathustra holding the celestial
sphere, though Ahura Mazda has
feelings about that. The young man
Zoroaster saw the human condition
to be a struggle between the truth and
the lie. But Chubby listens, cat-facing
her guest. She is easily bored. “A little
nap would be rather nice.” Mr Ahura
is going on about the purpose of human
kind (sustain aša, or arta: the truth),
and Free Will. Fortune Lobo has a talis
man that agrees (in principle) with this
and with Ἡράκλειτος ὁ Ἐφέσιος, and
the concept that everything flows.
λόγος is the word.
But Aristotle intellectualizes, the Stoics
decided to go all the way to Obi Wan,
with λόγος being like a force (not a farce).
The Lao Tze may talk about the qi (prana)
in the context of the Stoic πνεῦμα.
But Chubby is fast asleep now, the only
philosophy of hers is eat, sleep, and per
haps a little Dionysian Dithyrambs.
Don’t forget to shit, either. Or else.
I think that covers it.
Nāgārjuna’s examination of motion
is hardly Newtonian, but then, as
Feynman put it through Gibbon:
“The Power of Instruction is seldom
of much efficacy except in those happy
dispositions where it is almost superfluous.”
And on, “Philosophically we are completely
wrong with the approximate law.” “But”,
Chubby wakes up, opens one eye and says:
“for practical purposes, it is useful to be
wrong, and to send rockets in space or in
the salad dressing.”
Ahura Mazda and Chubby are thus engaged
in a philosophical wrestle.
“I should like to begin,” starts Chubby,
“mentioning that William Blake of Soho,
prophet of the time nearby, makes it quite
clear for us: the youthful Harlots curse,
the hapless Soldiers sigh, marks of weakness,
marks of woe.”
Ahura Mazda: “And you are completely wrong.”
“My son Cyrus, ancestor of my other son
Frederick Bulsara, Parsi of the Exodus, once
said: I returned to these sanctuaries on the
other side of the Tigris, the sanctuaries of
which had been in ruins for a long time, the
images which used to live therein..” Ahura Mazda
roars in order to make his point, and then the
“Radio blah blah. Or even better: Behulzebub
has a devil put aside for me…” Chubby retorts
tartly. “Bismillah: in the name of God, the
merciful, the compassionate…”
Ahura Mazda: “I am God.”
Chubby: “Though not omni potent, your potency
is at least debatable.”
Ahura Mazda: “The Parsis of Bombay agree…
evil is just an emanation of me, not my binary
opposite. Now, concerning Free Will…”
Chubby: “Let me stop you right there.
Since you mention Mahā-Ambā, or the
Etruscan Goddess Uni. And since we are
now living in the Uni-verse, in answer to
your claim of being a God, my good friend
Ahura Mazda, hear me out. My name is
Chubby, Cicciotta (in Italian), or Bastet,
or Bast, Goddess of the Egyptian Pantheon,
sister of Horus. The Greek know me as
Artemis, and my brother as Apollo. But
all of this is irrelevant. Because
तत् त्वम् असि
Thou art That
have a look back at the Chandogya Upanishad,
and remind yourself of that, kitty cat.
If you dare questioning the law of gravi
tation, Mr Ahura Mazda, please refer to
these words: Rex tremendae majestatis,
salva me. A sordid respect for Death,
the essential teaching of the awakening.
There is a kind of clog in the flow of
verse. The qi does not flow freely, the
straight line of Newton is only valid
for a Galileian system of co-ordinates.
But as Eistein said, Galileo was trapped
by thought together with Giordano Bruno
in a Tower which looks like the Red Queen
Hypothesis crossed with the Fisher King.
The infinite nature of the verse-uni is
twisted by the voice of madness, in an
alley, streams of voices howling in the
night, all the fears of dishuman kind.
The body of Mozart has not been honoured,
the love songs from China have been
forgotten. The handsome Monkey King
has parted ways with Sir Gawain, the quest
has been put on hold. The Archive of Myth
can always be plundered by the greedy.
It is when the flowers of Qi have been
picked, when the relative powers of
beauty have been measured that the
voices of the deep come whispering
in one’s ear. Monkey is listening to the
Sadness Radio, tuning in with that region
of the soul which is uncharted. The time
less rooster is going cockydoodledoo.
There is a word in the sky which is
not spoken, which is the reflection of
human thoughts projected onto myth.
that word is not utterable, its meaning
is lost in the collection of interchange
able dimensions which roll ball-wise in
the time-less dance of the algo-rhythm.
There is much meaning which has been
untapped, territory of the Mind which
has not been explored. Fortune Lobo is
on a mission, and so is Monkey. Desert
Storm and Ariadne have their own mission.
Each character in this story has a path,
a soul chart to be drawn with colours
straight from El Greco, with a bit of doubt
from The Last Temptation, and other Cretan
myths. But I digress. Lord Byron guide this
poem, steering with the NeverEnder through
unchartered depths of the ether-less space,
and though energy can be related to mass and
velocity and light, the ether is somewhat a
paradox. The NeverEnder is sailing on the
ether, or rather the absence of it. The waves
of non-ether may be designed by the God
of the Exodus, and may look like Dark
Energy. According to recent calculations,
there is a lot of Dark Energy around, and
some Dark Matter. On this note I would like
to elaborate a certain point. The NeverEnder
is made of paper and of ink, but it can sail
towards eternity. Dark Energy may revolve,
and the absence of ether may look like destiny.
Monkey is feeling the sadness tantrum, the
sanctity of his mission has been put into Q
and A. Monkey is here to answer your Qs.
Q number One. Why is the uni-verse only
expanding in doubt?
A number One (from Monkey). Doubt is
the thing that east of faith makes the wind.
Q number Too. Why is Monkey not related
to the Green Knight?
A number Too (from Gawain). The Green
Knight has lost his way. His ancestry there
to fore, has been re-formulated. His geno
type has been redesigned to fit the needs
of a very greedy narrative. The hungriest
of plots is what fuels the non-ether, and
therefore the waves which hit, photon-like,
the side of the NeverEnder, which is in
non-flight toward the non-end of the non-
That’s a lot of whichs. But witches do not
exist. Only very needy Tigers of the Night,
which do not burn bright, only burn slowly,
like a fire which has not been staked (sorry
another which). This night we are honouring
the faithful departed, and also the unfaithful.
They are very much the side of two squares.
A white squall of waves hits the side of the
NeverEnder, and the echoes of myth rever
berate across the galactose in space to vibrate
more energy toward Poseidon, and Fortune
Lobo, who is cross-legged on the bottom
of the diamond ocean floor, looking at the
Japanese Foxes’ Weddings. Ahura Mazda
is locked in a word-to-word wrestle with
Chubby, who is feeling all the weight of
the universe after Giordano Bruno’s post
ululation. The sadness of it all hits the clouds
which are burst by Monkey’s somersaults.
Tales of Ovid’s exile are ecchoed on the
darknening green by Dr Full-ton’s desire.
On the shores of lake Romantic, the treasure
of the Hittites and the Dacians’s mountains.
Secret paths to cavernous truths are being
tested, full many a gem lies in the diamond
ocean, where Fortune Lobo, soldier of
fortune, is gathering the forces of the storm.
There is no end to material suffering. How
ever, time must have a stop. “Thus did the
host sojourn at Zara all that winter (1202-
1203) in the face of the King of Hungary.
And be it known to you that the hearts of
the people were not at peace, for the one
party used all the efforts to break up the
host, and the other to make it hold together.”
“Many of the lesser folk escaped in the
vessels of the merchants.” Sail to the port
of Moton in Romania, and meet the Doge
of Venice, or at least join the party headed
eastwards. Dreaming, the voices of the
deep. Whispers of non-vocal pain.
Fortune Lobo is a soldier not on a crux
ade, more like a fish in a pond, the
ocean of diamonds, though on a east
ward mission. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are soil-digging in the Archive of Myth.
Monkey and Gawain are mining two
different sides of Planet Pain, which
is an emanation of the Murakamian