On The Subject Of: Reincarnation

There was a point in my life when I was pondering many issues of human nature, and wondering if what we did now effected what might happen to us after we died . . . I was laying face down on the linoleum tiled floor, which is one of the six places I happen to ponder those types of issues best.  The other five were too far away.  The closest place is almost always the best place, for me. 

While I mused abstractly I entertained myself by blowing a single piece of cereal across the tile floor, trying to outdo myself with each puff.  As the cereal rolled across the floor it bumped into what appeared to be a large shard of deeply varnished wood.  I was, in fact, under the impression it was wood until it skittered toward me. 

I was deeply concerned to witness a rather large cockroach sprinting toward my face, but was even more concerned when it raised it's antennae and addressed me.  -DR HOOPLA!  it called in a deep basso profundo. 

-Gah?  I choked in answer.  I stand by it as a valid response, under the circumstances. 

-CALL ME GULIK.  I AM A MESSENGER.  I COME HITHER AND DITHER TO TEACH YOU ABOUT REINCARNATION. 

-Zah!  I gagged, being still an ignorant fool, and lacking full enlightenment. 

The roach tittered over to the cupboard near my head and opened it, revealing hundreds of cockroaches crawling through my garbage.  I don't know what stopped vomit from spewing out of every pour in my body, but I'm thankful it didn't.  I hacked again as Gulik said,  -THESE ARE THE CHOSEN OF ERIS.  THEIR ENLIGHTENMENT WILL ALLOW THEM TO MOVE UP THE LADDER AFTER THIS LIFE TO KOALA IN THE NEXT LIFE. 

-Koala?  I asked.  -That's the next step up from cockroach? 

-OF COURSE.  DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY BELIEVE COCKROACHES LIVE A RATHER IDEAL LIFE FOR THE MOST PART.  MOST LIVE IN, OR VERY NEAR, GARBAGE . . . THE CENTRAL DIET OF OUR KIND.  AND, I DON'T KNOW IF YOU'VE NOTICED YET OR NOT, BUT THE WORLD IS FULL OF GARBAGE, GROWING STEADILY BY THE HOUR.  THERE WILL NEVER BE STARVATION FOR COCKROACHES. 

-But, why are Koalas the next step up the ladder?  I asked. 

-FOR ALMOST THE SAME REASON.  KOALAS LIVE IN EUCALYPTUS TREES, WHICH IS THE SOURCE OF THEIR MAIN FOOD:  EUCALYPTUS LEAVES.  BUT, THERE ARE FIVE ADDITIONS TO THE KOALA WHICH PLACE IT A NOTCH ABOVE US: 

1) THEY ARE ACCEPTED THROUGHOUT THE WORLD BY ALL SPECIES OF MAN BEAST AND INSECT (EXCEPT FOR COCKROACHES) AS THE CUTEST ANIMAL IN EXISTENCE. 

2) THEIR CENTRAL DIET, EUCALYPTUS LEAVES, ARE PSYCHEDELIC, SO ALL KOALAS ARE ETERNALLY STONED. 

3)  THE EUCALYPTUS LEAVES CAUSE THE KOALA'S URINE TO SMELL FANTASTIC, WHICH IS UNIQUE IN THE WORLD. 

4)  KOALAS ARE PSYCHIC, SO THEY CAN- 

-Holy shit!  I exclaimed.  -For real?? 

-YES. 

-Prove it. 

-FUCK YOU, WHAT DO I CARE IF YOU BELIEVE ME? 

-Sorry. 

-WHERE WAS I? 

-The fifth reason. 

-RIGHT. THERE IS NO FIFTH REASON. 

-So, I asked.  -What is above Koalas? 

-SRIZZLEFISH. 

-What the holy Hades are Srizzlefish? 

-THERE ARE ONLY EVER FIVE SRIZZLEFISH ALIVE AT ANY GIVEN TIME.  SO THERE IS A LONG WAITING LIST.  THEY LIVE ANYWHERE FROM TWO HUNDRED TO FIVE HUNDRED YEARS.  THEY JUST FLOAT AROUND ON THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, COMPLETELY ENLIGHTENED.  THEY REQUIRE NO SUSTENANCE, THEY SIMPLY . . . ARE. 

-Great Googly Moogly.  What's above Srizzlefish? 

-NOTHING. 

-Nothing?  How can there be nothing above Srizzlefish?  Something must be. 

-NO.  THERE ISN'T.  THAT'S IT.  THE END.  KAPUT. 

-So, if there's nothing above Srizzlefish, when do you become human? 

-PFFFH!  Gulik laughed.  -WHAT'RE YOU, KIDDING ME?  AND TAKE A HUGE STEP BACK DOWN THE LADDER?  YOU'RE ON GOOFBALLS. 

Thus, I was enlightened.

St. Jerome Day

From “Ghostbusters”:

Venkman: “Have you, or any member of your family, ever been diagnosed schizophrenic? Mentally incompetent?”

Librarian: “My uncle thought he was St. Jerome.”

Venkman: “I’d say that’s a big yes.”

Jerome (342-420) is generally credited with having translated the Bible into the Vulgate (Latin); however a large part of the work was done by Paula and her daughter Eustochium after they all had settled in Bethlehem in 386. They worked on the translation and, when Jerome submitted his translations to them for correction and amendment, polished up his work as well. The work was finished about 404. Although Jerome dedicated a great number of his translations to the two women, later scholars erased their names and substituted the words ‘learned brothers.’

Those fucking scholars will screw you ever time.
-Dr Hoopla

When Conversing With A Tree:

When conversing with a tree it is important to keep certain facts in mind . . . Most importantly, that almost all trees loathe conversations about the weather. I have no idea why this is, but it's true. This is an enormous bone of contention with them, and some become quite irate by the simple phrase 'hot, ain't it?', so to be safe, avoid all conversations about weather. Unless you are conversing with a Birch Tree, in which case weather is all they are interested in talking about.

Also, it good to keep some taboo topics in mind, so that uncomfortable silences can be avoided; some topics include Maple Syrup, the trees from the Wizard of Oz, The Spanish Inquisition, and antique wooden furniture. In fact, it's probably within your best interest to steer clear of any topics revolving around wood. 

Lastly, the one topic you never, but EVER, want to engage a tree into conversation about is the philosophical concept of Dualism. I made the mistake once, and was so bored to tears I found myself waking up six months later, covered in moss and growing mushrooms from my face. But, hey, I always was a fun guy.

Dear Muddy,

Cheer up, Muddy, remember that life is short. Life is often brutal and depressing, have fun while you're able. Smile, laugh, giggle, even guffaw when you can. Muddy, you and I both know that there were times when you had fun, I've even seen you attempt to roller-skate. Granted, that was during the Carter Administration, but still, the joie de vivre was in your blood then and can't truly be snuffed out, once ignited. I'd give my Aunt Jodie's wooden left leg to see you jitterbugging all over the rink again, with a pillow tied to your fanny.

Muddy, what's wrong with walking in the rain? The term 'acid rain' is mostly poetic anyway, nobody I know curled up and died from letting some drops fall on their tongue. Do you think you're made from sugar? I used to think so, but now I'm not so sure . . . care to prove to me you are?

Don't work so hard, Muddy, the work will always be there. Like what people say about making the bed, it just gets messed up again anyway. Remember that work is for money, and that money is for fun, so in the end work is just a means to an end. 

Muddy, why do you reject the amusement park? Don't you realize those wonderful places are the earthly temples of Eris? They are a veritable diorama of our entire planet, metaphorically showing us what the world can be, if we want it to be. Yes, the rides sometimes derail, and yes, nasty people sometimes abduct kiddies, but you can't focus on the bad, or that's all you will see. Think about the fun-house, and the corn dogs, the popcorn, the roller-coaster, and the Fat Lady, my lord, don't ever forget the Fat Lady. When she cries, Muddy, she cries for you . . . but when she sings, she sings for the world.

Why don't you sing, Muddy? Are you afraid your pipes have rusted up over the years? Well, I'm a plumber, Muddy, and I can help rattle those pipes if you will only allow yourself to loosen the foundations. When I sing I can feel it all the way down to my disco-dancing toes, and it seems to bring an electric charge to every atom in this prison I call my body, you don't think you could use that kind of boost? While I'm on the topic, why don't you dance Muddy? I've even seen dogs and cats tango together under a grapefruit moon, do you think you're better than them?

Why don't you join us, Muddy, we love you. We want you to look back at the end and say that you lived every day to it's fullest. Will you really care when you are on your way out whether you were always calm, cool and collected, or will you just care that you lived? Muddy, remember what my friend Sally once said: "What good is sitting all alone in your room? Come hear the music play . . . life is a cabaret, old chum. Come to the cabaret.

your loving chum,


-BVH

The Burning Bush

At a low period in my life I was seeking enlightenment.  Lounging around in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, I pondered the sorry state of this world. Wondering if this was really this and that was actually that, and whether tit really did anything for tat.  Realizing that at this point I had stopped philosophizing, and was merely invoking Suess I decided that it was time to move outdoors, to breathe in fresh smog and bask in the milky autumn sun; in other words, to seek my enlightenment in the world.

On the sidewalk in front of my building I spotted an Oh Henry candybar.  Looking around, I saw nobody who seemed ready to lay a claim on it - the bar seemed to be up for grabs.  I crouched down and examined it closely, without touching it, of course.  I wasn't about to become insnared by some intrepid alien or wily big game hunter.  I didn't, however, detect any strings, and the sidewalk around the candy seemed unmolested.  The bar was mine.  Snatching it up, I moved to a bench to consume it in comfort at my own leisure.  It was chocolatey, it was caramely, it was nugety, it was sweet and it was gooey.  It did not, however, enlighten me.

Sitting on the bench, I sighed.  Where next should I seek my enlightenment?  As I mulled this query over I took notice of a small book on the bench next to me.  Curious, I picked it up, and read the cover: it was the Collected Short Stories of O. Henry.

This was a stunning coincidence.  This, undoubtedly, meant something.  As I opened the book to peruse the contents I was struck by something that made the book altogether more strange - all the pages were torn out, save those between seventy and sevety-seven, a story entitled The Green Door.  I felt this story must be of cosmic significance, and so devoured it on the spot.  Here would finally be the answers to all the questions I wanted answered.  I read the story in a few minutes, and chuckled once or twice, was saddened at least once, and sighed at the end.  The story was touching and amusing, but it did not, however, answer my questions.

I felt perplexed.  I felt confused.  I felt discombobulated. I did not, however, feel enlightened.

Still searching, I walked.

I walked five blocks, came upon the Deuce, and was then struck down to the pavement with another stunning coincidence.  The Victory Theater was screening Behind The Green Door.   This was a stunning synchronicity.  This, undoubtedly, meant something.  I paid my admission, bought another Oh Henry bar at the candy counter, and made my way up to the balcony.  The movie had already started as I made my way through the sickeningly clammy sound of about a hundred and fifty people beating their meat in the audience.  I shuffled into the back row and tried to find a seat which hadn't been issued upon.  As I sat down -just for a laugh- I began to smack the palm of my hand against the back of my neck furiously, and moan overly loud.  The monkey spanking subsided for just about seventeen seconds.  I chuckled to myself, and began to unwrap my candy bar.

As I took the first bite I realized the movie had stopped in place on the screen. Marilyn Chambers's legs were spread-eagled, and all her glory was up close and center stage, so to speak.  So many euphemisms which are inappropriate rattled through my brian . . . tacos and beavers should not be compared to the same part of the body described as The Mound Of Venus.  As this thought fluttered through my mind I also noticed the utter silence in the theatre. There were no longer any sounds of auto-eroticism whatsoever, in fact my fellow patrons seemed to be petrified in the more literal sense.  I became alarmed by this, but was even more alarmed when Marilyn Chambers's bush on-screen burst into flames, and began to speak to me.

DR HOOPLA, a smooth female voice called from the burning bush.  YOU MADE LEVITY IN A PLACE OF SOLEMN WORSHIP.

I gulped, since there seemed little else to do under the circumstances.

HOW DO YOU STAND AGAINST THESE CHARGES? the female voice asked.  Guilty, I hiccuped.  I had mocked the meat-beaters.  My candy bar was melting in my hand.  I could feel it.

GOOD. said the voice. YOU'RE ONE OF MINE.

Who, who are you? I asked.

I YAM WHO I YAM, came the reply.

Popeye?! I exclaimed. It didn't sound like Popeye.

NAY, I AM CALLED ERIS NANCY DISCORDIA. GODDESS OF CHAOS CONFUSION STRIFE CREATIVITY AND BUREAUCRACY. I AM THE HODGE OF THE RISING PODGE AND THE PODGE OF THE SINKING HODGE.

Why me? I asked, not cowering as blatantly as a few moments prior, but still cowering nonetheless.

FOR YOU ARE A GOOD APPLE.  YOU ARE AWAKE ENOUGH TO QUESTION, SKEPTICAL ENOUGH TO QUESTION THE APPARENT ANSWERS, GULLIBLE ENOUGH TO FOLLOW MYSTERY, HUMOROUS ENOUGH TO MOCK THE SERIOUS AND SERIOUS ENOUGH TO AWAKEN IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU EMBODY THE IDEALS OF THE SACRED CHAO, AND LO, I DEEM YOU A KEEPER OF IT. 

Why have you come? I asked.

BECAUSE THE AVERAGE CANADIAN HAS ONLY ONE TESTICLE.  the voice said.

Say what?  I asked.

BECAUSE NOBODY CAN PRODUCE AN AVERAGE CAT.  the voice continued.

Wha?  I queried.

BECAUSE EVEN VOMIT CAN BE ART!  FARE THEE WELL-

Wait! One last question! Why Nancy??

WHAT?

Why Eris Nancy Discordia? I asked. Why Nancy?

NANCY'S A NICE NAME. FARE THEE WELL KEEPER OF MY SACRED CHAO! SPREAD MY WORD - ALL MEN SHALL BE SAILORS THEN UNTIL THE SEA SHALL FREE THEM!

Wait! I called, You stole that from Leonard Cohen!

NAY - HE STOLE THAT FROM ME.

Thus, I was enlightened.

The bush ceased to burn.  The film ran forward.  The manhandling kicked back in, but sounded more serene this time, like a gentle rainfall on a tin roof.  I walked outside, and promptly slipped on a banana peel, while thinking 'Indeed, do many strange things come to pass.'

The Myth Of Ichabod

There once was a huge boulder, perched precariously, on the edge of a cliff. For hundreds of years this boulder was there, rocking and swaying, but always keeping its balance just perfectly. But one year, there happened to be a sever windstorm; severe enough it was, to topple the boulder from its majectic height and dash it to the bottom cf the cliff, far far below. Needless to say, the boulder was smashed into many pieces. Where it hit, the ground was covered with a carpet of pebbles–some small and some large–but pebbles and pebbles and more pebbles for as far as you could walk in an hour.

One day, after all this, a young man by the name of Ichabod happened on the area. Being a fellow of keen mind and observational powers, naturally he was quite astounded to see so many stones scattered so closely on the ground. Now Ichabod was very much interested in the nature of things, and he spent the whole afternoon looking at pebbles, and measuring the size of pebbles, and feeling the weight of pebbles, and just pondering about pebbles in general.

He spent the night there, not wanting to lose this miraculous find, and awoke the next morning full of enthusiasm. He spent many days on his carpet of stones.

Eventually he noticed a very strange thing. There were three rather large stones on the carpet and they formed a triangle–almost (but not quite) equilateral. He was amazed. Looking further he found four very white stones that were arranged in a lopsided square. Then he saw that by disregarding one white stone and thinking of that grey stone a foot over instead, it was a perfect square! And if you chose this stone, and that stone, and that one, and that one and that one you have a pentagon as large as the triangle. And here a small hexagon. And there a square partially inside of the hexagon. And a decagon. And two triangles inter-locked. And a circle. And a smaller circle within the circle. And a triangle within that which has a red stone, a grey stone and a white stone.

Ichabod spent many hours finding many designs that became more and more complicated as his powers of observation grew with practice. Then he began to log his designs in a large leather book; and as he counted designs and described them, the pages began to fill as the sun continued to return.

He had begun his second ledger when a friend came by. His friend was a poet and also interested in the nature of things.

“My friend,” cried Ichabod, “come quickly! I have discovered the most wonderous thing in the universe.” The poet hurried over to him, quite anxious to see what it was.

Ichabod showed him the carpet of stones…but the poet only laughed and said “It’s nothing but scattered rocks!”

“But look,” said Ichabod, ’see this triangle and that [square] and that and that.” And he proceeded to show his friend the harvest of his many days study. When the poet saw the designs he turned to the ledgers and by the time he was finished with these, he too was overwhelmed.

He began to write poetry about the marvelous designs. And as he wrote and contemplated he became sure that the designs must mean something. Such order and beauty is too monumental to be senseless. And the designs were there, Ichabod had showed him that.

The poet went back to the village and read his new poetry. And all who heard him went to the cliff to see first hand the [carpet] of designs. And all returned to the village to spread the word. Then as the enthusiasm grew there developed a group of those who love beauty and nature, all of whom went to live right at the Designs themselves. Together they wanted to see every design that was there.

Some wrote ledger about just triangles. Others described the circles. Others concentrated on red colored stones–and they happened to be the first to see designs springing from outside the carpet. They, and some others, saw designs everywhere they went.

“How blind we have been,” they said.

The movement grew and grew and grew. And all who could see the designs knew that they had to have been put there by a Great Force. “Nothing but a Great Force,” said the philosophers, “could create this immense beauty!”

“Yes,” said the world, “nothing but a god could create such magnificent order. Nothing but a God.”

And that was the day that God was born. And ever since then, all men have known Him for His infinite power and all men have loved Him for His infinite wisdom.

-Malaclypse the Younger