NeverEnder Space Epic Poem / Book II / Chapter II

Chapter II

Effect, Franz Fanon. Causation, Edward Said.
Warning, a journey to the East swallows up
dreams, Baku-wise. What is Jerusalem?
Sri Krishna: “Who cares to seek for that

perfect freedom?” Einstein asserts that the
strongest and noblest driving force for
scientific enterprise is a cosmic religious
experience. But Fortune Lobo and Desert


Storm have doubt. Ariadne (being a Goddess)
is in the league with Cicciotta-Chubby-Bastet.
They sit and watch, we play and weep. So,

While the vynil of the story is being scratched,
and new etchings are marring the past, which
is being re-written as a Sean C monologue, and
the NeverEnder is a ship which is travelling back


wards, then the thread of the story (which is a
yellow ribbon) is being unravelled non-linearly
and duality is talked about in the form of a
conventional truth (worldly and Nagarjunesque)

and an ultimate truth (some of those Huxley
Island kites would do). A daily cup of maggots,
that is the nature of samsara. Yum yum! So
before you used to eat cockroaches, now you


have graduated to maggots. Monkey is eating
his breakfast on planet Pain, and he has a bad
tummy. Gawain is taking a break on the other
side, while the Ancient Mariner is taking que

stions. “So,” quotes the naive Fortune Lobo,
eager to understand “what is the Middle Way?
I have always wanted to know. Is it half way
between Pad Thai and Papaya Salad ?” Now


Planet Poseidon coughs up the perfect storm,
and the youthful adventurer is catapulted half
way across the ubi-verse, as way to punish
him for his cheeky remarks. Pad Thai, indeed.

Doubt is a flat spot on a greasy lake, like a
small fisherman’s boat, floating by with nets
of Guilt, and fishing Fear. Entropy is the juice
which pumps the heart of Planet Pain, and


Gawain is mining its jewel-caves for more
amorous feeling, a bit like Montecristo (the
count, not the island). Entropy is the juice,
and I fear the other half of the equation may

be that tremendous heat that we all feel when
pressure is applied to the system (we may ass
ume that the system is a closed one, and that
your mother may decide further laws of ther-


-mother-dynamics. Cognitive Bee-hivioral Thera
Py. This, in mid-slump with Piezo2 and β-catenin.
Acute depletion redefines division of labour. Other
wise known as, sunset in the afternoon with biscuits.

Gawain has a mouse, like his father before him. But
“Somewhere, parently [..] the copyist must have fled
with his scroll.” The name of the mouse is DumbBill
Silly. “Cull me ere I wilt to thee!” Laughtears. β-cate


nin mediates stress resilience (or else we let the bullies
bully us, and steal, and nibble, and feed off our blood).
The stronger mouse bullies the smaller mouse (or possi
bly, the less hungry). The ravenous mice are feeding, so

father sets out for his crusade againt all evil (what a more
on) by sticking the glue on the ground to capture the ene
mies. Pathological states are scattering across the ubi
verse like the well-known Cassiopeia dis-ease. Sudden


ly a gizillion (at least five) Moody’s Dicks (S’ i’ fosse
foco, arderei ‘l…), also known as scien’wist shmucks,
are swimming in the mercury sea of ab reductio, and
the bodies of the slain are burnt on the pyre. Mammals,

insinuations, forced allegiances to the murderers. Micro
RNA regulation up the ass, Mr Dicer. Fortune Lobo
(floating as the snow at the peaks, echoing as the sound
of the foothills, watchful as Heimdall, flying as the


water of spring) resolves himself to catch the passing
boat of RightMindedness. There. So what are the forces
which hold protons and neutrons together in the nucleus?
What is the journey of the electron? We shall follow that.

When the field jiggles, it behaves like a particle. So nuc
lear forces command the will of Fortune Lobo, Steppen
Wolf of Scythia. Who commands the nuclear forces? It’s
turtles all the way down, apparently. But downstream


microRNA is commanded by the brain-less pseudo-thera
pist to vectorise the brain. How does the brain-less act on
the brain? Just wait and see. How will Fortune Lobo, while
spinning like the versus of an electron in the space between

particles, using the knife in part one of the story, preparing
himself for the fall… how will Fortune Lobo counter the
farces of canonical Wnt signalling coupled with the doctor’s
false oath? Now before we follow the electron, let it be known


that the Director of the Human Nation (Dux Ubi-Versal),
he that sees the gnat atop the pile of Jurassic dumping,
while sprawled across the ubi-verse, feeling poetic, he
lines up the ants, the mice, and the leading pine apples,

and declares the ten (mind you) tenets of Desired Behaviour.
But first, he enumerates the long-term benefits, then he asks
a few tough questions, and then he answers his tough questions
with a few tough answers. The White Plague has instructed


him. But Fortune Lobo hears not, he is still spinning,
voiceless, in the unknown backyard of your mind, dear
Reader. But before we delve in the harmonics of
particle travelling, I should like to note that not all

scientists are born from the blood of Uranus when
he was castrated by Cronos. The child of the night,
with a broader portfolio than the Furies, operates as
a counter to the capricious Tyche. Now, I am not sure


about Mr Tycho, but Fortuna does not come down
heavy on the man that declares that science and religion
are compatible. In reading the words of Mr Albert
Einstein, one is struck by the melody, the mellowness,

and the unshakeable empathy. A mind of thought and
beauty. Nemesis may have driven Narcissus mad,
Fortuna is still revered in Italy and in the shades. But
if there is no overweening pride, if there is no hubris, then


the mind is gentle like the relativity of simultaneity,
and the reference-body for the budding mind is like a
firefly in the night when the howling storm is far and
away, and Feynman’s path integral becomes certain.

Fortuna, you need not fret about the pebbles moved by
the wicked and the child-abusers, the Furies will have
them. Echoes in time, as Echo cannot love, and the
host of daffodils is dancing in the wind, not recollected.


But as Matthew Arnold reminds us, the world in which
we are living defies death.
“In the pines the thrush is waking —
Lo, yon orient hill in flames :
Scores of true love knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.
When the lamps are pal’d at morning,
Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.
—Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand.”


Scientists, pale maidens, the sirens of this age.
The orient hill is in flames with nanopores and
anti-gravity, and with delusions of monopoly. So
if science, liberty and peace are not the subject

of political debate, but relegated by doubtful
self-appointed chair-people of false compassion
to the vague notion of “poetry”, if the charity
workers are slaves of the marketeers, if the wo


men of science and the men of engineeering
are driven not by motion but by greed and ambi
valent ambition, then the understanding will
be nil, and the conquistadores will claim the

land, and the politicians will come with bare
hands to squeeze the juice of missiles, the forces
of the atoms unleashed at the whim of Cleopatra.
So after this disclaimer, I should like to discuss


the path of particles, of cakes in caves, and
while we hide, waiting for the televised apo
calypso, we can test our hypotheses with the
Galileo method; let’s drop a plume and a rock

and see which particles fall on the other side of
Pinocchio. Disclaimer, disclaimer. More poetic!
So we wish the electron a merry Saturnian holy
day. Saturn is spinning while Titan is at rest. Lo


and behold. When Nemesis was turned into a wild
goose, the motion of all matter was first described
in terms of waves. The x-component of Nemesis’s
momentum is calculated with uncertainty Δhelen.

You cannot, at the same time, know its x-position
more accurately than Poseidon’s smelly bum. These
days, the God of the Sea is particularly polluted.


“Is this the cycle of life story or the Ego boundary?
That’s tenderly. The moon talks to the universe, isn’t
it?” Kroo Pienkit hits the nail on the head. The study
of poetry’s recombination frequency is measured in

centimorgans. As previously stated, philosophically
we are completely wrong if we stick to the approxi
mate law, or the law of the conventional (buddhist)
truth. Nevertheless the sentence is passed on and


the next generation of creatures observes the
particles jiggling and bouncing like jelly or
possibly pudding. At the level of the body of
liquid water, we have another source of vari

ation, the production of new alleles (which
are versions of a unit of knowledge) by mute
action. γνῶθι σεαυτόν. One of the first tasks
is to establish a correspondence between the


deoxyribonucleic acid and the map of knowl
edge. Gnostic and agnostic markers have ap
proximate distances calculated with electron
pointers, which contain the address of Apollo.

Particular combinations of andrewpaulmurphyc
narratives are termed nefas-rious and can allow
the restructuralization of the evolutionary history
of a popularized information set. Let us begin


with a simplified picture of how memory is
organized. A typical machine has an array of
consecutively numbered or addressed mem
ory cells: Apollo, Apollo, Artemis, Artemis,

Artemis, Artemis. 110000. Over a large time
scale, business per usuals may shuffle the gnōscō
map of Here Comes Everybody. HCE, “an
imposing everybody he always indeed looked”


Information storage and transmission. One or
two angstroms will do. If an apple grows the
size of planet Earth, then the atoms of the big
apple are the size of the original little apple.

Information flows in cells, either as a 32-bit
float or a RNA interference machinery, with
a bit of Neo (or Don Juan), a pinch of Ahura
Madza and lots and lots of kinesthesis.“All


art is at once surface and symbol. Those who
go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” Sean
C has started a session of navel grazing in front
of the dark-pooled mirror on Planet Vashisht.

White, white… down. From the river of the past
comes a reflection of a story, the laughtears of
forgotten words. The Vashisht mirror throws up
images of delight and sorrow. Sean C listens.


Rain falls violently on every thing. Look, a
monastery, high up in the mountains, shrunk to
the size of Sean C’s mind set. The himmel-
laya are prostrating as tiny stones, much like a

chorus. Clouds burst like rotten eggs and the
jelly of heaven pours down. The gate of the
monk-place rises like an ogre. Giant statuary
shabbiness split between the perfect roof, the


bulky wooden columns (tense like the nostrils
of a cheeky dragon) and the ruins of the night.
Beams are projected in mid-air like daggers.
So much chiaroscuro. Sean C marvels at the

crippled Aphrodite (vagina times), whose
beauty is enhanced by the concave parts.
The left side of the gate is griffin-paragon
in its full supermajestic slant. The opening


of phoenix wings against the Russian gloom.
In the middle of the gate, buttressed against a
colossal column, whose red-stained wood has
been ravaged by time and termites, a heavily

framed mirror looks on. There is a mirror in the
reflection of the mirror on Planet Vashisht. Sean
C is tripping. The Caivano glass is cracked,
venom’d with blackish veins. Silence enfolding.


Deafening noise of falling snow. Roar roar roar.
Sunlight quickly vanishing behind the facing
mountain, engulfed by an army of massive snows.
The monastery sits on the east side of the valley,
perched on a platform of rock, cast between the
dark-hued slope, studded with huge sharp rocks,
and a wall of stone behind it, marking the impene
trability of the Earth. The sun rises from behind


the wall, touching the crests of the high mountains.
Opposite, west and north-west, burning their snowy
fingers, licking the sunsetty furnace red. A magenta
portal of the mountain deep, wide as a quadrangle.

In the middle of its inneryard there sleeps a temple
like a golden and shining gekko, a well-kept coil.
The high mountains form a narrow valley, frozen


in snow. North and south, a riverruns, bending way
through the marooned ice. One can witness the
advancing tread of icicles, a little tighter every day.
The cold, dry air is speechless, no warbling of birds.

The valley has halted in an echoing stillness, with
only the lone murmur of the river to emphasize the
silence. The reflection of the mirror is dark. There,


the light is not thrown back. A black pond, in ripples.
Branches of trees murmur from it, though it casts no
image. Single drops echo in its mercury liquid glow,
and footsteps are heard. Sean C is mesmerized. The

shadow of a man flashes intermittently across the watery
wall of silence. Melancholy, a burning innuendo; the
figure emerges from the lizard shadows with an
expression of pain across the canvas. He comes and


goes from the screen of the reflection, much like the vomit
of a Caravaggio picture. The dark waves in the mirror are
balanced by the late afternoon wintry light. There are no
leaves on trees, and yet Sean C hears the rustle of autumn.

In a brief enchanting second, light flicks in the mirror,
and Sean C is forced to witness the passing of a flock of
starlings in a pale blue sky, before the image of the Grim
homes in again. In an irony of pain, the Grim holds out


his hand. ‘I can’t get out,’ he says. “Becchin’,
amor!’. Sean C listens to the Grim. He is talking
to his non-angelified girl-friend. Then the lass
answers with humour: ‘Che vuo’, falso tradito?’.

Whaddayawant, that is. ‘Che mi perdoni’.
Forgive me. ‘Tu non ne se’ degno.’ Piss off.
The translation is liberal, ‘coz the Grim is heavy.
He used to be a poet of the throat, a clericus


vagans, and a goliardus (or goliard). After
many years of peregrinatio academica, he
is rather weary, especially as he has become
trapped in the mirror in the mirror (oh dear,

Mr Ende would have said “what a prison of
freedom”). On the subject, I advise reading
the Daily Spiegel (im spiegel). In this leit
motiv, there is a wanderer in the fog during


a strange old winter, in the Ghetto of Venice.
So. Be moderate in sleep and wakefulness. The
sun does arise, and make happy the chlorophyll.
And hence on the electron transport pathway

we slide along with the ancient mariner (fabbro
like his son Thomas Stearn). Discontinuous lite
rary quantities measured by elementary quanta
of negative electricity (electrons). Poetry,


awakening, raindrops in the gravitational field
of Planet Freedom. Along with the many lost
and undead crawling across London Bridge,
together with Master Stetson, we find seekers

of Planet Carnuntum, people who remember
that pressure is proportional to density. The
job of the goliard physicist is to understand
why things want what they want. The Grim


does not remember his true name, and lensing
gravitational, red shifts and expanding constants
all complicate his self appreciation. Sean C
talks to him through the mirror in the mirror.
“I believe in intuition and inspiration. When
the eclipse of 1919 happened, I was not in the
least surprised.” The Rashomon-Heisenberg


effect is a deity which is planted in thyself,
which has detached itself from the persuation
of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods,
and cares for mankind… the molecular motion

of the soul is like a hot gas (hence the hot-air
baloons), and in certain cases the heat can be
so enormous that it generates light in the form
of flames. For this reason, HCE (who we know


as the Grim) is well worthy of any and all such
universalization… a bit like Fortune Lobo is an
unwanted Byronic hero with lots of reluctance,
and Desert Storm is a Sheherazade in the making.

Fortune Lobo is spinning in the semi-empty
space, his electron journey to Andromeda is
a bit of headache. A zero gravity sense of humour
is all we need. The NeverEnder, in a command


performance, running strong since creation
(and destruction) is gossiping about all sorts
with Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman. The self
aware ship is filtering through an asteroid

field in the manner of chromatin immuno
precipitation. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are having tea on Uranus while being logged
on the Archive of Myth. Gawain and Monkey


are ju-dancing softly softly with brother Yermek,
founder of the Borovoe mountain trekking club.
The ju-dance is a physical property of humans,
these strange particles coming off the skin of the

odd-verse. Last year, they were in quatrains.
This year, sonnets or nonsensical coupling.
The connection between truth (as a gravitational
force) and all energy is a very weak interaction.


“The things which are external to my mind
have no relation at all to my mind.” Fortune
Lobo is spinning (much like a spider on a
mystical trip) very close to planet Carnuntum.

In the ju-dance, Gawain subject-weathers the
qi while Monkey spaces at very high speed.
Their movements are poetic, a bit like a muffin
(duly fought over in Earnest). From within the


mirror in the mirror, the Grim discusses the
theory of shadows to the minutest detail,
putting Ahura Mazda and Chubby to sleep.
From over the short sea, mountains are rising

on Titan. Planet Pain is orbiting a flavonoid
star, and hormone signalling echoes are
discharged in the form of anger management.
On this very day of oscillations, when the light


is just for show, and the children of the Earth
are screaming on top of their lungs, counters
and geometeors are numerizing the algo-dances
all busy on this side of the galaxy. According

to the NeverEnder timing, all legends are
currently sleeping, and the white architecture
of mythilation is slowly unpeeled by the Grim.
“turns out, I am scribbler. I used to populate


narratives with words, so you could say that
I am a popularizer. I used to squeeze a friend,
but she went all oportet aqua on me. Her name
is Becchina, that much I can say. Kawaaaai.

I spent many a day in the shadows since then,
looking for Sapphic Wisdom. As I was walking
in the orange grove, I began to wonder what
secrets were hidden on the other side of the


wall. I had often heard from the Tiger Tiger
that great beauty was to be found on the other
side. I went through the door and found
a desert. I closed my eyes and saw feelies.

In the wild, a rock and a piss, an old
friend was spinning a wheel, opening
and closing nematode holes for little
threads to fall in. Everything was so


interconnected. And so while skirting
around a hole, I fell in, and by St Louis,
there I was inside a painting, much
like a purple rose, St Matthew was

being slaughtered in a French Church,
on the other side of this page. While
stuck in crimson hue, I stumbled and
catapulted myself onto the screen of


an ipad, hand-held by a Japanese comic
stripper, and so I came to the realization
of guilt. What are these narrative threads?
What is the relative amount of truth to

each little statement? This is why I am
now palely loitering from mirror to mirror.
I still think of the high mountain, and
the last time that I sang the song of


Becchina. My contemporaries might
know her by her nick name: Beccanassa.
In my time in the shadow I had much
sandwich to peruse the meaning of things.

The number of my issues may have
been complex, but I resigned myself
to live in a world of floats. Presently,
Mr Sean C (nice to meet you), I should


like to elaborate on the following
subjects. The number 2, the behaviour
of an electron (sometimes a particle,
sometimes a wave) and the idea of

Romanticism. Let us start from the
latter. Romantic is that cavorite thing
which grows with thigmo, and then gravi
tropism. The painter of plate 2 summons


up the courage to admit the existence of
uni-versal fear and sticks it in his art, a passion
worthy of Herostratus. Now Artemis is extremely
pissed off. Was there ever a planet Artemis?

Was it ever meant to be mis-en-Arte? That’s
a bad pun. Umberto Eco talks of unfinished
symphony. Kafka never finished a sentence.
‘That we must feign a bliss of doubtful future


date’. Kimmerians, living in the land beyond
the ocean stream (or on the scythian steppe)
are covered in mist and cloud, fog and dark
ness. There, the cloud somersault idea of

rom antic is quick-sand defined by the
legendary Odysseus, on his quest toward
home. That a Greek should define Rome…
is the ultimate joke of the Hades, a territory


which we now must enter with caution
(there is a lot of traffic, a bit like Sathorn
road on a Freia’s day evening). This is
the Z80 CPU register which is available

to the misadventure befalling in the year
of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, twelve
hundred and seven. Figure 2 (data not
shown) shows the 208 bits of read/write


memory which are misused here. In this
study, we shall analyse the space between
cells, in the manner of biocommunication
capability, romantic emotion, soul or

in vitro leukocytes. Further more, we
shall elaborate on primary perception
in plant life. Lady betrayal says ‘more
meaningless impro-visions.’ Visions and


re-visions. At the gates of hell, some
French scientistics (Peak civilization
memorians) calculate the complete
knowledge of a quantum state, the

prediction of hullaballoney, a critiqual
step in quantum interfero-mechanics.
We’d like to split electrons in half or
we’d like to determine wavelengths


with a knife. ‘I am from the government
and I am here to help’. Oh dear oh dear.
Itinerant electrons are being murdered,
the number 2 is so very square, and this

narrative is superconducted. But to the
matter. Hades. Lady Betrayal, Duchess
of the underworld goes by the name of
Hel (dweller under the tree). She’s got


balls. So to speak. The yoga of mysticism
is needed when crossing the river of hell
(somewhere between the ox-ford and the
camp-bridge). Devotion to the supreme

spirit. Prince Fortune Lobo has come to
rescue the antagonist (a certain dragon,
son of Troy). The spin has ceased, and
all the versi of all particles are pointed


toward the exploration of malign destiny,
sought and found and defeated in the depths
of Hel. ‘How did you, still alive, come to
be in this murky darkness?’ Questions are

to be answered. Desert Storm has run out
of ink. In her plight-search for written word
she has dug out the curious feeling of
danger and of awk. Or was it awe. Cut it


out. ‘There is more to life than this’, cries
out the infantile cadet, while her infantile
sister is digging deeper into depression
and anger. Planet Pain is unmeasured well

of justification and of regret. In this root,
the waters are divided, and the poetry has
run dry. Monkey has set out to find all the


other characters, now all confused and lost
in the expanding dimension of galactic Hades.
The dark energy may have been a blip, but
emotion-devotion is very real, and the judge

ment that each soul is calling upon itself
is so very real, it is almost artistic. Of the
number 2, electrons and more soul acoustics
we shall elaborate while journeying pod-palia


(a bad Russian translitteration of memories
from under-grown). The Olympian Gods
behave oh so capriciously, almost like the
biological signals of epi-mechanics (which

Sean C observes in the paintings described
by the Grim, who is currently thinking about
the best way to get out of the mirror in the
mirror). Recapitulation: all characters have


collapsed in a state of coma inside a thing
much like a black hole which we writer-scientists
would like to call Hades (which stands for
Harmonics of Adenine Decency and Electrical

Speranza). The latter word means hope in a
now dead language, or language of the dead.
And this is why the Grim, suddenly oblivious
is now memorious of his true name: he comes


from somewhere across the water, and down
the valley of redoubtable Celtic sorceresses,
across the elephant mountains and on to the
maritime pine trees, the odour of cicadas, and

the ‘ramingo and esule in suol straniero…’
We now remember! Sean C understands, from
broken downloads that the Grim’s true name
is Cecco, and that he used to be a poet or at least