So censorship issues a dictum on imagined idiocies.
‘You are not allowed to draw, and I see what I wish
in your drawings, so my accusations will be holy.’
Fuck that. Switch on the Murakamian Well. The
Archive of Myth is leaking. John C has tinkered
his DNA to pick up sounds and accusations across
the ubi-verse. Artemis, meanwhile, is hunting in
the woods. Let her hunt, and let the moon shine.
It’s not just a reflection. Satellites adjust the tilt
of our gravitational being. We are humans, we know
shit. The Murakamian liquid is spilling out, and
the seconds are being counted since the cat left.
Ah, don’t forget about the numenosity of the moon.
The cat clone, outside on the sands of Titan, on
the extensive aeolian dunes, is counting the stars.
This activity is popular elsewhere in the ubi-verse.
Some rotten fish imported from Borovoe lake
has made John C sick. Artemis is resting in the
Etruscan twilight. Cecco and Gawain have found
their way through the flatlands near the Tyrrenian
sea, labouring their way inland, toward the myth
ical lost city of Volterra. They are planting small
poem-seedlings, which require small attention.
A former Etruscan champion of reincarnation,
an individual by the name of David Herbert
is trying to call John C’s number, but the ring
bounces back, John C is dreaming of cooking
spaghetti and does not hear the phone ringing.
His illness is advanced. Dance-zheimer, coupled
with DNA telomerisis, chromosome decay, and
single nucleotide subversion are adding up to
his malady, which is mental and cytoplasmic.
In the Archive of Myth, Ariadne is alone with
the silence of timeless images. It is fine to be
alone with images, she tells herself. Shadows
across facelessness. Raffaello’s green is always
greener in someone else’s gallery. Tintoretto’s
Jesus, all piety as well as wet and sexy after
a football match, kneels to wash the feet of his
team mates. St George, like Perseus, is fighting
the timeless whale. John C is dying, drowning
in the Murakamian Well while his cellularity is
(to put it simply) completely fucked up. In the
stomach of the whale, Fortune Lobo is suffering
a similar destiny. He is being pushed toward the
intestine. That would be the end. Four stomachs
are already enough trouble, and there isn’t any
air in there. Breathing methane, like on Titan.
Fortune Lobo and John C are seeing what Ariadne
is seeing in the Archive of Myth. A gallery of
images. The light of Carthago is still very delenda.
Perseus is very blue, a moody and firm expression.
The Gorgon doesn’t really look pretty at all. It is
so sad to be mistaken for krill, but then again you
wouldn’t expect whales on Poseidon to be normal
at all. After all, there is no such thing as normality.
Or should we call it normalness, or normalosity.
Creatures of the ubi-verse at not concerned with
being normalous, unlike the Milky way prop-ups.
So let’s talk about what it means to be normal for
a (relatively) young lady, or a galaxy. Our friend
Andromeda, while waiting for Cetus, shows a
trend related to her stellar age (she is not that old,
still waiting to get married to Perseus or the Milky
way). In her spiralling beauty, the youngest stars
show a relatively ordered rotational motion. Fortune
Lobo dreams of kissing her around the centre of her
galaxy (he’s always been naughty). In her hair, older
stars display a much disordered motion. In her eyes,
stars are moving coherently, with nearly the same
velocity, whereas in her heart, stars are disorderly
showing a wider range of velocities (Cicciotta is
taking notes), implying a greater spatial dispersion.
All of this is so very painful. As previously stated,
the Gorgon does not look pretty now, but once like all
of us, she might have counted the stars from the
gutter, thinking of Oscar. In a sudden rush of anger,
Ariadne shouts ‘the enemies of the Archive of Myth
are to be turned into stone.’ In her mind, there is some
delayed apoptosis. Half of the archive is under
reconstruction. ‘Je suis Charlie’, sighs Ariadne.
She notices that Perseus is about to turn to face
her, perhaps to even speak to her. Would it not
be wonderful, dearReader, if our beloved myths
were to come back from the world of ideas
(where Plato first hid caves and chains) and
spoke to us with true passion, and radiating
with the knowledge and virtue of the immortals?
We could then feel a joyful blessing, timeless
and floating above all of our failings, and decayed
bodily functions (much before the genetic-tinkered
DNA decides to get fragmented and cancerous).
There is not much time left for Fortune Lobo.
He has almost made it to the rectum. He sees
the light at the end of the tunnel. At the end,
there is light. Monkey is long gone. John C
sees him dying, thinking that Monkey, one
day, will regret having betrayed Fortune Lobo,
a young, and much loved cadet. His final
moments are dark, and very sorrowful.
John C himself is drowning in a sea of
Murakamian liquid. Cicciota is outside,
singing in the wind, unaware that her friend
is shuffling off this mortal coil. But Perseus
is still blue, and Raffaello is still green.
The tables are broken, the soldiers are toys,
and the enzymes and light wash the flesh
of all joy. John C’s final thought is devoted
(why oh why) to Hox genes. There must
be some plan to this body of galaxies. So
shanti shanti shanti. Fortune Lobo and John
C are no more. Good, let’s get some coffee.
But wait! Desert Storm has been falling for
some time now, since the days of the black
hole (the good old days) and her location is
unknown. But she stumbles upon a new
dimension, and ends up into the lap of Cecco,
who instantly falls in love. ‘You, Becchina!
Beccanassa!’ Gawain is not interested. ‘ Yo,
we’ve got a Grail to catch. Or what was it.’