Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Four Scouts to the New World/ Parts 12-15

By Brian George

The premise, as presented by John Giordano: It is discovered that life can be supported on a pristine planet JUST LIKE THE EARTH located in a distant galaxy. The only difference is that there aren't any humans on the planet. The most evolved animals are apes and monkeys. All the natural resources are the same as Earth. Technology exists to get four people to the planet on a scouting mission. They will stay for one year, planning for the arrival of settlers from Earth.


Notes for New World Planners

Group planners 1 and 2 agreed on the importance of the ecoscientist. She was vital to the mission. She would modulate the arrogance of the technocrat, insure that Isaac Newton would behave, and prohibit excess reproduction. She would ban the hoe and the rake, which terrorize the hearts of worms. Mesoamerica could instruct the voyagers in the design of low-tech tools. Natural death is best. Species will beg to be harvested, as they eat from their destroyer's hand.

The ecoscientist would remove all the batteries from flashlights. They do not last. Artificial light obscures the movement of the constellations.

Did I agree with group planners 1 and 2 on the selection of the ecoscientist? As I have said before, my attitude was arbitrary. It was necessary to start somewhere. I delegated my power to the random conjunction of forces. The group mouth had spoken. I would play along.

In the days of the Rig Veda, before any rules for Sanscrit were invented, when the Aryan race was young, poets would free a horse to wander across the fields of anonymous grass. North, south, east or west, where the horse went the hungry tribe would follow. 


Thereafter I parted company with the group. We could not reach any consensus. Group planners 1 and 2 were skeptical about the shaman, the army engineer, and the historian of mythology. The army engineer did not seem safe. He would get ideas about death. He would dream of genocide. He would export arms to the uninhabited globe. My other candidates did no better. They were voted off the expedition. We will see. Group planners 1 and 2 are concerned about my psychological health. I am building androids to replace them.

In addition to their doubts about the army engineer, their fear was: That the shaman and the historian of mythology did not seem very useful.

As I had said myself, they reminded me, it was now our turn to reinvent the calendar. Every accident in the new world should be happy. An ideal should shine, like a city on a hill. No darkness should be allowed to taint our ideological hygiene. To my perfect mind, their objections became almost interchangeable:

The cold warrior is a dinosaur. He is rude to UFOs. The tragic muse destroys what she creates. Ecstasy is selfish. Magic is not a force for universal peace. My choices were strange or politically incorrect, they said. They were not useful to the group.

Is group think safe? Revenge is a dish best tasted cold. I prepare the cervical socket of an android—to receive the plug of a prehistoric brain. In the course of the argument my candidates, from the outer dark, had returned, and again were voted down. Their lack of usefulness was of course the point; the goal being to reverse the course of progress, in the service of an obscure and impenetrable cause.


In search of blood, my infantile ideas grew up. My sperm has staged a jailbreak out of the urinal of Hermes. There is no way to avoid the key role played by regression.

Dead rulers will march, attended by a train of genetic engineers. Again, Moebius and Medusa will decide to tie the knot, which binds man’s DNA to hard labor at the laboratory. Birds will liberate burning books from the sewers of the Sargasso Sea.

My dreams are big. They will prompt an explosion.

The long shadow of Earth’s history will demand to be of help in the transposition of the 5,125 year cycle.

A black sun will trade places with the yellow. Tribes will levitate the Pentagon, as they did before. The spiked head of the Statue of Liberty will crack open. The music of the spheres will move in for the kill.

Please forgive me. I am bad. I do not know what I was saying.

Bankers will jump naked out of windows, as the water swells at the end of Gotterdamerung. Laughing, some will hold hands as they fall. All images will be recycled. 24/7 media will broadcast the heroic death of gods. Continents will break dance. The unconscious of the moon is full. Predestined units are to set foot on the ark.


From Pluto to Mercury, the planets had all arranged themselves in a line, as a solar flare knocked the last weapon from Earth’s orbit. It was the seventh session of the Kitty Hawk Consortium. A fourth planner had been added to the group. His own group had been swept off by the plague, just in time to escape the conflagration.

"Hi. I'm group planner 4, but you can call me 4, or John, my sub-lunar slave name, if it makes you feel more comfortable. Daily exercise is good for you. I ride a 12-speed bicycle, and believe in perpetual motion after death. Transport is immanent. I play drums in a rock band." Alliances were rearranged, by stealth hypnosis. Pens tapped against teeth. Faces put on serious looks. Notebooks opened.

Group planner 4 expressed his admiration for a friend, who lives in a community of hard working celibates, who are bald. Beam technology from the future has excised all unnecessary glands. The psyche, as a threat to the universal order, had also to be stapled shut. A magnetic field has equalized the activity of each neocortex. The bald celibates have been biogenetically engineered for joy. They can reproduce by the power of telepathic thought, should the need arise, which it hasn't, at least not that we know. What money they make comes from website design. They do not like food much. They do not consume many resources.

"When are they planning to commit suicide?" I ask. The joke proved to be an example of bad taste, as the group had not yet chosen to go public with its wedding plans.

A man made asteroid has broadcast to initiates a list of eight things to do. Lift off is near.

(Illustration: Brian George, Scarab-star, 1990)

See "On the Paintings of Deni Ozan-George," the latest post on my blog "Masks of Origin"

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