In his last novel, VALIS, Philip K.  Dick proposes God to be terrible and wonderful at once, a depth we cannot contain. Thus we split him into two, into Yahweh and Satan, into Vishnu and Shiva, and handle the two aspects separately.

A clown provides another solution. He may remain terrible and wonderful if deflated of all his might, if made infinitesimal, trivial. This is how the Romans sustained things, with their mighty, lecherous Jupiter. I choose chain-smoking clown. I’ll see what he does when I sum him over infinity.

The madmen dissolve themselves into the Universal Oblivion. It tastes like orange juice and sounds like laughter. Or is that their laughter? (Impossible to tell, as they are madmen.)

John Lennon said he was the walrus. This is not the same as Universal Oblivion. He wasn’t mad—he was making a socio-political statement.

But.

His statement got bandied around so much, it might have dissolved by now into the Universal Oblivion.

Walruses–

What else has made it into that dump?

My Love Epiphany was in a precarious state. It was the Truth, which had seemed like a stable thing over the two weeks I’d had it, but when flung into its first battle Truth had not fared so well. Oh sure, it had gotten me some smiles, but—the BART ride home was brutally clear on this—the Love Epiphany had not gotten me Love the night before. I couldn’t see where I’d gone wrong.

I stopped by the library first. Allen Ginsburg, Bukowski, Pablo Neruda—I would figure this out, by force if necessary. Then I trekked up the hill to visit Maren at the bead shop. Maren knows everything about rocks and love. If she didn’t have genuine advice, she’d at least make sure I left feeling sexy.

When I arrived, I found Maren with another visitor. He introduced himself as Michael, and I realized he was The Michael. Michael the ‘psychic’, the tarot reader, who’d read Maren’s cards so perceptively she’d cried—the charismatic Michael, who liked to get into her head then ask her out.

Michael stood in the corner of the bead shop, balancing on one leg and holding—honestly—a giant crystal ball. We talked for awhile; I was distracted by my love failure but didn’t mention it. Then with no warning he pronounced:

“Do you know why you don’t see as clearly as Maren and I do?”

“No, why?”

“You have too much emotion.” He paused to look at me then continued. “You’ve had a big realization in the last week or two, but you’re losing it in your feelings. Don’t let it go. Remember: you know what you know.”

Crikey. I muttered some thanks and got out of there.

The engineers construct the monster a crystal throat tube, in their humanitarian project to save the monster’s soul and their utilitarian project to save the world. She’s a bottomless monster, voluminous, hungry, but without the appreciation of taste. Her wet tongue slobbers like an animal over the surface of the earth—her fetal sense dangerously extends itself. She has no form, and inside waves of potential rise up but crash back down in her vacuum. With every crash she grows hungrier and the waves grow larger. They’re light shows, teasing her behind her eyes.

And what eyes. The dark, empty pits frighten the engineers. If they could only get that light show out of her and put it on display, they think, then she’d get what she wanted. If they could tunnel all those waves through the crystal throat tube… That’s what she’s trying to do—poor baby. Then they could feast on her, instead of the other way around. All this hunger of hers is really just the desire to be eaten. All this surface tension, and she just wants to melt.

KillBill: hey there, lukks
Luki: billy boy, i missed ya
KillBill: ya. went to the refrigerator, then the store. But now i’m BACK
Luki: GREAT
KillBill: so what are you up to??
Luki: there was this fat bird on the line outside. i killed it. with that shotgun you gave me for my bday. there’s blood everywhere man. what about YOU?
KillBill: shitz
Luki: shitz?
KillBill: i got them bad
Luki: gorgeous
Luki: well… ttyl i guess. wish you were here.
KillBill: me too. shit. bird is delicious.
KillBill: bye

It’s true.  Life is a dream. You are the maestro. Welcome, maestro.  For you we have prepared this cushy chair and this luxurious feast. Please, settle in for the show.

What? Your baton? The podium?

Maestro, I think there has been a misunderstanding. The music has already been written down and distributed.  The musicians have learned their parts. Who is going to look up for a man twirling a wand?

No, not even the estimable you. I’m sorry, maestro. Please, make yourself comfortable.

I’m riveted to a daydream that plays over and over again in my brain. I swim laps to it in the backyard pool, remembering awkward shadow daydreams of ten years ago. A fat bird struts on the power line and I try to laugh about it. I see you, fat bird!—and I try to shake the daydream beast off. Clouds stream over the mountain and break up into sunshine rays; construction workers in the arroyo chainsaw to salsa music. Fat bird sings. Everything is laid out for me—everything is ready for the laugh.

But I’m too serious today. I am downright grim.

I go get Nietzsche, the most hilarious man. He may need some extra effort from me right now, I know, so I flip to a juicy aphorism and visualize all his Over-men as Over-clowns—it is an honest attempt, it came to me last night—there are carnival overtones—but I watch as, to my horror, the clown remains serious. He is an unshaven hobo clown, too tired for tricks tonight, just wants to smoke his stogey.

“Everything sinks.” he tells me. It’s the new law of the circus, “Even your mother, full of blubber: she sinks like a stone!” And he laughs an evil, serious, rasping hobo clown laugh.

This might be a conspiracy, I think. It might be a change in the laws of physics. I knew things wouldn’t sit still for me in El Paso. I run back to the pool and throw in a stick. It sinks like lead. This is why the pool looked so clean! I realize. No bugs float on the top.

The guilt sets in. Maybe I did this—I might have when I turned everything into clowns. I dreamt it last night and now I’ve gone and done it. I don’t think things through.

I run back inside. Nietzsche, I say, I take it all back. No good comes from the carnival! I flip open my journal and cross out a whole paragraph of crap. ‘Universal clowns’, ‘shrunken levity’—fuck me. I deserve this.

Then I rush back outside again with another stick.

It sinks. Damn.

She knew right away the answer was: Mu! It was a dumb question and had she trekked up a mountain for it, the old Zen master would have hit her with a stick and yelled it: “Mu!” Why won’t this boy love me? Does a dog have Buddha nature? Who killed JFK? Mu! Mu! Mu! She had too many of these questions, though, to trek up a mountain with.

Instead, she went to the ocean, strapped them to her back and jumped in. Mu is for sissies.