FIREBALL.
Excerpt from The End Times, 00/201/0998/01
…Spectators in Fiji first saw a blinding white-hot fireball “like a giant spotlight shining in your eyes” pass directly overhead trailing blue smoke. Then the evening sky lit up for around ten seconds as it broke into four “breathtaking gold and silver fire-balls” and a swarm of smaller pieces beneath the clouds. Another re-entry. Film crews and newspaper correspondents were on hand to record mythic history in the making…
The Memoirs of Buffy Strangelove (excerpt):
…But trust no-one with a camera in his or her hand. The famous faces blur, running incontinently into spectral canvases, road movies played out at 12 frames per second, convoys of limo-trucks becoming one meta-truck. They’re out on the freeways, on the lookout for dipsomaniac celebrity truckers, cutting swathes of destruction through lives, innocent families carved up in the hot metal holocaust. Life just isn’t valued as it once was. They are raged up road hogs, out for fun whatever the cost. But the rubber-neckers are out in force to see this spectacle.
As I plummeted, a soviet-type spy ship (or that’s what was officially reported) in freefall, the premonition of my impact on the unquiet waves was available to those reporters present who were already susceptible to the vibes. A total of 1.617% of assembled reporters caught it on film before it happened. My light shone even brighter than usual in anticipation of the impact. The dream catchers, celluloid conjurors and baseball-hatted ur-Spielbergs, trim bearded and technology obsessed, armed with the very latest technology, were jostling for position on the shingle. Parody documentary makers, their tripods lined up like an army of only semi-benevolent Martians, their cameras potentially as explicit as weapons, potential witnesses before and after the fact. But most of them were not aware of the impact before it happened. The snappers too engrossed with the technology to see what it was they were photographing, the hacks themselves were minutely concerned not with the unfolding divine spectacle itself but with the elegant phrasings with which they would frame their empty experiences. Techno-vampires, energy geeks and ghouls, an unwashed army of F-stopping lens magicians and focus pullers, they lacked the essential animus, the divine spark, the pre-cogging talent that might in another universe have made them artists. Only those clear-eyed enough to use the camera, not to mention the tripod, as weapon, could see what was going to happen.
Not even with the assistance of the schools of humpbacks and sperm whales, behemoth outriders preternaturally aware of the incipience of divinity, a colossal mammalian entourage singing their songs of devotion, were these cameramen capable of seeing the event before it happened. The impact, when it occurred, caused a wave as big as a suburban street, the houses filling and re-filling, emptying themselves back into the ocean, the spume a rabid animal. As the fireball disappeared beneath the water a supine and disarranged figure on the rocks beside the previously limpid waters, who was obscurely apparent to just a few of those present, also disappeared. Music was heard all around, crashing power chords of atonal bombast, during which the whales were seen by the same 1% of observers to maneuvre the capsule away from the cameras. The event didn’t even make the mainstream news, so ashamed were the assembled hacks and snappers of having missed the essential moment. But the magic didn’t go altogether un-reported. The disappeared figure and the missed satellite re-entry initially assumed for the world’s media the status of UFO, became an X file oddity. Whispers begat rumours, heads were scratched, rumours then hardened into clandestinely constructed conspiracy fables. Wires were tapped and film was minutely examined and found to be faked footage. There never was a re-entry. The capsule had never existed. There had never been a scheduled re-entry. Thus was the public soothed and flattered into acceptance of the sub-divine version of events. The mainstream media fabricated a narrative according to whose elements nothing untoward had happened. Certain semi-mainstream hacks promoted the fiction that the capsule (which did in fact exist) had emitted a light so bright that all cameras were temporarily rendered inoperable, thus explaining the lack of footage. They got that bit right at least. Readers and viewers of this output of course swallowed it whole. And why not? In the absence of any corroborating evidence to the contrary, habit had engendered in them a tendency to believe anything at all that they were told. Truth is of course uniquely mutable in these end times, most of all where Buffy Strangelove is concerned.
The obscure media didn’t of course swallow it whole, but were nonetheless powerless to discover what in fact had happened. Their morbid theorizing and paranoid ranting, comprising as it did the usual gibbering incontinence about world governments, hybrid lizards in human form, satanic masonic plots to rape the world and steal its resources, served only to placate the more mentally ill sections of the community, who also were prone to believe anything they were told. Speculating with or without data was 2nd nature for the practitioners of conspiratorial overkill, a readymade model of pre-ordained reality. Conspiracy is as conspiracy does. They satisfy themselves with mental pictures that correspond to their innermost fantasies, their morbidity a dysfunction of a dislocated worldview. Broken down eyes, a misdirected sense of nature, a misreading of natural stigmata all around. Anyway…The bleeding sod, the hole in the ocean, the cracked earth. They all missed it. It goes without saying of course that these people are the least likely of all to be capable of seeing elephant metaphor as hard wired fact, let alone whale or dolphin emanations.
When I say I’m a divinity, a household god, an avatar of fecklessness, a boozed up idol of lasciviousness and adultery, an arched-eyebrow deity of sublime and irresistible charm, I don’t want to be taken too metaphorically, but on the other hand a metaphor goes a long way in explaining things in the weightless state. I really am a god, of my own making. And elephants really are my familiars, they really are a conduit to the divine, really a living cosmology. Unless my assertion can be disproved…by me. And now, is anybody there to deny it? Elephants have this awareness of their meta-capabilities. I am divine by virtue of the electrical power harvested from elephant tracks laid down millennia ago. I stumbled on them. But they didn’t trip me up. These numinous trajectories enable me to escape through back doors, away from angry husbands, through time holes. If a better explanation is available for my incessant womanizing and ability to sneak away undetected, by all means find it.
I’ve enlarged for you. I’m large in the snake pit. Belly tied down, feet at right angles. I coil and re-coil at improper interrogations. Large mammals are indeed my familiars. I’ve graduated. 2nd raters use things like cats, bats and snakes. Depending on the nature of the emission, I shine bright, specifically to delineate the vectors of my intent. Elephants are the imperative. Their presence in the here and now is now miraculous, they evince preternatural delicacy, and thus possess the ability to melt into the background when required, a very special endowment. They can exist outside prescribed time environments. They confound ecological space proscriptions. I have found that many people are unable to see them, except fleetingly, and even then only in peripheral vision. Many people miss the spiritual elephantine element altogether. Speculating with or without data was and is my original method of extrapolation. Finding the right pieces to fit together, a jigsaw of my own making, is an undertaking based partly on random selection and partly on determinist self-exculpation, to ward off the evil eye of evolutionist scientist technicians. The sort who know jack shit and who have to be bought off. They’re the ones who control the broadcasting rights and whose power bases are the most corrupted. Bags are filled with cash, technical knowledge is stowed in carrier bags. Their silence is a sine qua non of my ability to live and breathe my feral magic on the earth. TV crews are primed, technicians have been engaged at non-union rates. I reveal my secrets piecemeal, bit by bit, only for the empty cameras.
I found the natural world disease free. Some ecologists and animal behaviorists of course confused my interest in nature with altruism. Art for art’s sake. Of course my intent was, in their terms at least, somewhat more sinister than that. No sooner had I hidden myself away in the fridge than I was seeing things from the perspective of the humdrum prism of selected household goods. Once trapped in the electricity flow, it’s difficult to stay awake for any length of time. My concealment in the coked up rock god’s fridge was a kind of hibernation. I deep slept, saving energy until I could re-enter the commonplace world. Holed up in a domestic appliance. In a desert trailer. Not the most advantageous of perspectives you’ll have to admit. Of course events could have been affected, could even have been subverted, but in the end I realized that although people thought they knew what they wanted in terms of a divine being, I was, although intrinsically inconsistent with their mono-theistic theology, an adequate enough household god for any of these feckless therapist broadcasters to be going on with. The divine needn’t be Divine if you get my drift. Not for a society in turmoil and in autodestruct mode…a society whose primary cultural mode has become hyper-irony, a culture which has accelerated through the detritus of compromised identity, accelerated through and beyond history, so that history itself has ruptured, so that irony is now an incontinent force, a hyper accelerated meme…this kind of society needs a decelerated divinity. A retarded numen if you will. A devotional life lived at elephant pace. What we actually have is a joke society, a standup dystopia, one which cannot expect divinities that stand on ceremony. What I do is get things done, pronto. Like, yesterday! It’s a slowly softly can-do divinity. A switched on, by numbers, lugubrious numinosity. Remember…I am a boozer. I’ve slowed down. It takes me time to wake up in the mornings. Especially in other peoples’ beds. I am known as a distributor of cuckold’s horns, a guilt free Lothario. I need to plan my getaways with precision. I am not the horned beast but I might as well be. I am the horny beast. Post-hangover horn, that’s me. Let’s leave it at that. I need my shut-eye, and then I’m out of the gates like a rabbit. You have to remember that I’m hippocampus led. Meaning I have advanced motor efficiency, a 6th directional sense. I have the Knowledge; I know where to go. I can be out of the bedroom and down the drainpipe practically before I’ve heard the front door latchkey in the lock. I’m over the hills and far away. I lead and they follow, down the elephant trails. I have an unusually large hippocampus, as I’ve already explained, encompassing perhaps a third of my whole brainpan. I can be places almost before I’ve thought of them. The Elephant of course, needless to say, has the most enlarged hippocampus of all, even proportionally. They are the exemplary species of peripatetic DNA, nomadic DNA. Elephants know where to go. They are nomadic. And I learnt all I know from them. Keeping on the move is the essential thing. Of course, knowing how to get somewhere and knowing what to do once you get there are two very different things.
Dr. Abrahams’ personal journal, as taped during therapy sessions with fruit ‘n’ veg man Nobby Wyse:
(Nobby) Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! You! You! You! You! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Collective, family, therapy Bffy……My thoughts, consider me a madman, am I less parodic of reality than bland reality itself? Or is bland reality beyond parody? I take the descriptions of building love described in the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili at face value. Of course I’m attracted. Who wouldn’t be? But is the whole of semi-divine life beyond me? My curators, Ahab the most open to parody and most laughable, are always advancing little puzzles like that to keep me amused. They think they’re one up, but they’re the ones who are stabbing in the dark. Is my numinosity apparent only to me? I suck at the breasts of the statue before me. My wife was, they keep saying to me (as though I’ll somehow disapprove), sexually attracted to the Berlin wall and was devastated the day it was torn down even as the rest of Europe erupted in a frenzy of celebration. If only they could see. If only. If only. It’s all about Breathwork. All stress evaporated, all angst dispersed. I breathe regularly and deeply, and in a minute I rebirth, just like that. I sleep soundly at first, as long as I breathe deeply. The amount of oxygen taken in is crucial. My brain literally becomes flooded with oxygen. I start to trumpet, at first silently, then building up a momentum. Breathing is the key, and you need oxygen in unimaginable quantities. Meanwhile, the building fuckers are at large again…
This is corroborated by contemporary TV reports as follows:
“They’re……..mounting……..the buildings……they’re literally fucking the buildings. They’re actually attempting to impregnate the stones. They must have heard the trumpeting. I’m hearing….I’m hearing….the elephants are, yes, they’re in heat. They’re now in extremis. The elephants are now in extremis. There must be a couple of hundred or so, attempting this most dangerous and arcane of rituals, even now. They’re mistaking these formidable fortresses for something bigger. 4 kilometres away, on Hampstead Heath, a herd was sighted in the early hours, grazing and rumbling, trumpeting a low key chorus of intent. Large cows displaying distended rumps, trumpeting their mating summonses to all surrounding areas. The fabric is now torn. As I stand here on top of Broadcasting House, reporting these amazing scenes, hundreds of would be re-birthers are mistaking geometrically arranged slabs of Portland Stone for herds of elephants. So desperate are they, so hyped up, so keen to escape this realm that they seem to be hallucinating. They are weeping openly for the torn fabric. A procession has just borne a huge banner with a weeping elephant head down Regents St. They don’t seem to need or to want to adhere to the 7 sacraments; they’re just going hell for leather. I’ve never seen this sort of thing before. We’re witnessing what might be the first actual mass hallucinatory devotional jazz happening, the first mass rebirth, ever to have occurred in this country. This apparently profane happening is absolutely unprecedented in this realm.”
The building fuckers were indeed moving fast, in a kind of frenzy. Jim Shitkicker, Infallibility Correspondent of Reality Corps, was atop Broadcasting House, casting an expert and experienced eye over the figures below. But he’d never seen this sort of thing before. Not in a whole career that had seen most other things. Cash dispensers became overloaded, subject to autoerotic vibrations, the digital displays reading out apparently crazy and seemingly random and cabbalistic streams of numbers, secular blueprints of account details. Office jocks and orifice chasers looked on, bemused. The re-birthers, somnambulist zoologists excavating the occult meanings contained in the stones of London’s vast edifices, looking for leaden import in the grain of the stone, effecting strange rituals within the doorframes and window jambs, were gathering strength and re-doubling their autoerotic onslaught. Swipe card entry systems presented no problem, the low range trumpeting frequencies that emanated from Hampstead Heath and all points south rendered the electronic security utterly useless. Alarmed city workers were at a loss to explain to their line managers the events that were unfolding, and were equally unable to construe the gnosis taking place within the open plan offices. Line managers were, as always, equally befuddled. Befuddlement hard wired in line management DNA. Water cooler gossip was suspended in panic as pin-eyed pen-pushers and masked deities over-ran executive washrooms. It was access all areas. TV crews jostled for space, the corporate saps glad for once that Portland Place was at the actual epicentre of events. Camera crews maneuvered for space, frustrated by eddying clusters of asian tourists. Big haired porn correspondents re-arranged their décolletages by stealth as the techs got the cameras rolling. Tempers started to fray as the black suited and masked re-birthers began to lash out blindly, wildly asserting their primacy in the face of the pauperized and downtrodden commuter trash. The roadway was littered with discarded film cans, and balaclavas were now openly dispensed with. Shitkicker was aware of a hard-nosed presence at his shoulder. It seemed to him that it was God, but in 3 persons, who had come to receive him.
“Yapp……Yapp, is that you? You look different somehow! I can see…is that some sort of trick? I can see three of you…Here, have a snifter, have a drink old boy…I’ve never seen anything like this before. What happened to you anyway? I haven’t seen you since, uh, since the last celebrity crash…you still on the wagon then? Here, have a drink…”
Before I could answer, he’d lost his footing. He stumbled on the mass of twisted cable and he was over, a man falling out of the sky. Down down down he went, dusting the stones on his way past. The cameras again didn’t catch what had actually happened, the technology once again unequal to the presence of the Godhead, although there were, as usual, a few precognizant witnesses. The building shuddered as the crazed revivalists below redoubled their assaults on the modesty of the Portland Stone. The elephants were now multiplying as they renewed their circuits of the Marylebone streets.
Tags: adultery, buffy strangelove, cocaine, cuckold, david kettle, Elephant Gnosis, Jim Shitkicker, Re-Birth, Reality Corps, Rock God, Spielberg, UFO
