G “Until you solve the question of your birth – Perseus –
you shall be incapable of loving. ” exits the Gorgon
P (alone) “Accursed am I, and no sense of humour. How
Greek of me. Who are we? Are we clones of our ancestors?
My consciousness is a liar, my unconscious a freak. White
clouds buffering thoughts unknown, fast disappearing. I
will be a cloud, then. What we call a demi-god is only half a lie.
Half and half, committed to nothing. I refuse to be led on
By my mother’s lies. I have no father. Not man, not god, not
any other liar. I shall confront her. I can’t confront her.
I am a fat whale on land, I can’t navigate this desert.”
There is too much grief inside this shell-shocked imagination.
But now Chubby shifts in her imaginary seat in the black
hole auditorium. She is worried and angry. Being pulled
from history and thrown in a black hole is most unpleasant.
She thinks about it. Since the uncertainty principle does not
allow the values of both the field and the rate of change
to be exact, space is never empty. It has a rate of minimum
energy, called the vacuum subject to quantum jitters, with
particles and fields quivering in and out of existence.
Chubby feels jitterish, her mind is in a vacuum. Can
consciousness exist in a black hole? It is confusing to be
so close to John C. He and she and the play are both dead
and alive. Desert Storm feels an itch, the Spartan is asleep.
He snores, like the thunder of a thousand Persian soldiers
advancing on the pass of Thermopylae. Vacuum fluctuations
in John C’s mind. All of this is strangely familiar. “Dammit,
This black hole is giving me a headache”, Chubby thinks aloud.
“How long do we have to be in suspension? This reminds me of
the Murakamian well. I’ve waited for ages down that clogged
drain.” John C knows what he is talking about. “My computer
was destroyed but the memory cells are still floating in the
solar-system wide web. Too many downloads floating around.
So many sick thoughts of planets these days. And it’s all up
in the air. This black hole Murakamian well experience is
different though, it is a collective mindfuck, a tour de
force in the collective deadconscious. Some effort must be
put in following a plot thread.” “There is no freaking plot”,
intervenes Monkey, still suffering from separation grief
from Gawain and from a purpose of living. “Life is a series
of random events. Space-time is not flat, and I refuse to
sanction any art that pretends to follow a pre-ordained
structure. Mr Mamet can eat straw for all I care. It’s
an amoral thing to do. Not enough Becketts and Joyces.
Aristotle stopped the trade so long ago, I am still sea
sick. And structure is very much a purpose second term,
before you get sacked for lack of popularity. Mr Yeats’s
expressionism, two paintings after meals, says the doctor.
The play continues, if you please. “ὥστ᾽ ἔγωγε, καθάπερ οἱ
ποιηταί, δέομαι ἀρχόμενος τῆς διηγήσεως Μούσας τε καὶ Μνημοσύνην
ἐπικαλεῖσθαι.” Enter Mnemosyne, daughter of Uranus and Gaia,
Memory’s personification, mother of the nine Muses. Surprise.
She was taken by none other than her nephew Zeus. And so she
speaks. M “Zeus loves, Zeus talks, Zeus walks. And then he
forgets. But I do not. Daughters, stop prancing around.
I seek revenge: I may have drank from the wrong fountain.
You are goddesses, you give the Arts their rightful place
in the multi-verse. Kalliope, you are the brightest, inspire
me to epic journeys on the far side of model-dependent realism.
Ourania, show me the way among the burning gases and the waves,
the plasmas and the gravity of it all. Fixed luminous light in
my mind’s eye is not enough to stop this grief. Erato, let your
words dance, let my spirits be soothed by your loveliness. This
fountain, the hoof’s delay. Pegasus once stood here and kicked.”