for amigosueño 

 

Irony Saves the World

 

Gingko Tree, part 1

 

     The gingko tree is an orphan from the past; I am an orphan from the future. Why did I make the terrible journey from the sunlit sane future back into this brutish and cynical past? It's a good question which I'll answerish for you in pages to come.

     Gingko trees are the last member of their ancient family, the last of their phylum, class, and species. Look at a gingko leaf sometime and you'll notice the ancient fan-shape with its veins radiating up and out from the bottom stem joint toward the upper edge of the leaf. A modern leaf like a maple leaf will have a river-system of veins, a central long river with tributaries branching out into the lobes of the leaf.

     Along with pigeons and squirrels, gingkos are making an ironic comeback in modern Urbia. The gingkos keep me company in my quite vast loneliness. They remind me that even absent all daily company of chronoscient fellow dreamweavers, truth shimmers at dawn and whispers at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight. (I don't plan to flak you with too many unfamiliar words, but 'chronoscient' harks to 'time sailors' in welsh, the fire poets, the folk who saidsang the past and the future by many fires in many forests. We hear these songstories in our dreams, for few until much later were written down.) 'Ancient' is old time; chronoscient is my time, where I dwelled before I journeyed back back over the seas of time to this time, to your frightening brutish Turtle Island in the Great Eternal Sea. Did I come back so I could see thee here? You dared me then to journey back to the Time of Blood, said that I would not, said that I could not, said that I didn't dig or gig or grok you enough to go back down the telescope to the small end. Promised you would meet me there if I dared. Damn dare. Do I regret it?

     Perhaps I came back on a wind of longing in our unfathomable game which pinballs among times? Perhaps I am actually altruistic and hope to give courage to a few hearts beginning to dream of a more physically harmless and psychologically hazardous-for-grins world, a world which does come after The PearShaped Epoch? They call me Breddwyd  — you would say 'breath-wooed' for the sound, but here most folk say 'Brath-wid' and I answer to it.

     It is quite the feat fantastic to put back on the psychic armor needed in this barbed-wire world. The subsonic hostility here fairly bristles with offensiveness and defensiveness and humorlessness. Your delicious and ferocious mildness is a foreshadow of what will come when we 'humanes' begin again after The PearShaped End. But perhaps upon the subject of you, I am not objective because I know that for the last Really Big Pot, I've got your number and I win. I win so astonishingly much for my psychic coffers, that I can afford to be gracious in these little preliminary games, however galling the pesky and quite numberless present humiliations might be. It is the knowledge that I c.o.m.p.l.e.t.e.l.y snooker you in the end which gives me these acreages of patience.

     Whether my only original impulse was to find and three-up thee — Ha! Ha! See, I made it, amigosueño! — In the christly-long wait for you to appear in whatever guise you devised for this game, this mabolgamp, to divert myself from wondering whether you actually would show up before I expired of terminal boredom and local mindless-game tedium, I did get somewhat interested in the perils of the planetary natives, groaning under the yoke of truly horrible humorless religions and long boring wars. I see the bog and tangled jungle out of which we lemur our way to eventually get to our spangled chronoscient sea where hearts are free from the chains of religion and the pornography of greed. 

    In the age of gigantism, of dinosaurs, the Earth or y Daear (Dy-ear) uprose such vast energies that butterflies were the size of condors and condors blocked out the sun when over they flew. (Don't fuss thee, I'll clean up the chronoscient grammar if I send this to someone else than thee, mokha (welsh for pig as thou wilt recall). I am almost fluent in one of the dominant y Daear tongues, but have relapses when I've had as much cocoa to drink as I have now. I know I promised you I'd cut back on the cocoa before I left the future, but gollywhiz, taking away all my solaces when you were no where to be found yet — you can be a hard man, my porkchop.

     Anyway, in my researches, I found that there were cat-squirrel simian creatures, the lemurs, who, by being small and quick with twitching noses and stereo eyes, outwitted the crescendoing Great Extinction of the lumbering who lived on enormous fronds  The cat-squirrels kept our clever mammalian hopes cunning and alive through the Great Dark. The bio-history of bones has a big record but the psycho-history of hopes and fears and chuckles is quite invisible. The laughing ape. The laughing ape will win beyond the killer ape in the end. That's the thread I'm following through The PearShaped Finale. The ironic inherit the Earth. Y Daear. [“Laugh & the world laughs with you;Weep & you weep alone; For the brave old Earth has to borrow her mirth But has troubles enough of her own.” Wilcox].

     Why do the ironic win? Not because the worlds are just, but because everything else is so damn boring. Only irony remains forever puzzling. We love to do puzzles. And when the stakes are our very (secret) lives, that's interesting. Always interesting.

     There is, however, more irony abuse than any other dreaded abuse you can imagine. Most apes just don't get it. It's eel-slippery. Irony is the ultimate drug, but you can't fake it or take it or inject it or smoke it. You can sure bludgeon it tho. And most people do in these early days. Maxwell's leaden sledgehammer. Sometimes I cry out to the sky for relief — save me from this irony-deficient damn planet now please. But I wake up here again and lurch on. Diogenes spent his life searching for an honest man; I have spent my life looking for an ironic man. I found one. One. And then he just has to be horrible and cruel and pride-infested. Go figure. Everyone else drinks his damn koolaid. “Oh sweet adorable sexy James.” I am not in that way wholly blinded; only wholly irony besotted. Sweet, adorable — Ha! Ha! Ha! He is a monster, and he ebbs and flows like the tide; waxes and wanes like the moon. But when he's on, I am lost — babblingly, happily, drunk. When I'm not so wounded that I hide in the cold shadows of the forests licking my bleeding wounds; but he doesn't need to know about that. He accumulates large and petty triumphs. Until the last legerdesoul of course when he icarusly plummets into the sea of fire, but that secret's too sweet to reveal. He will not see it coming. That is sweet.     

 

//Mirth are us. Clowns rule.  Buffoons Arise. + 

 

ps. gin = silver in Chinese; ko = apricot;             

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gingko tree part 2

    Nobody really knows how the denizens of Y Daear got so irony deprived? You'll have to admit that the system of tiny tiny coiled patterns is ingenious. (Gluck-prints as our scientists call them instead of blueprints, but then we are no longer so publicly prissy and privately vulgar as the ancients. The trick is keeping such dna things damp — or allowing that they re-vivify when wetness re-occurs. They took a ten-thousands of years-old seed from an Earth pyramid and plopped it into some wet ground and presto, papyrus) You try to jam all that rabbit or giraffe or papyrus info into a couple of molecules and pull a rabbit or a giraffe out of that hat. You'd be mighty impressed with yourself, I bet. It is no wonder that the results go awry now and again. Too bad that a whole species became genetically susceptible to a variety of putridly virulent diseases: religiousism; patriotism; greedism; humorlessness.

     Now the question that Digrif, my ironist, and I are asked most in chronoscient times is how we pioneered the possibility of high (or low for that matter) hilarity with sensual adventures? It was not easy tho it was our gift to the future. I tell you these brutes back here are so damn serious so damn much of the time that it makes my brain ache. You try a little riff with these folks and they either go the Full-Kicked-Puppy, how could you be so mean; or they go Pursed Lips with silent but deafening disapproval as if they had smelled something flatulent; or they start ripping your face off with their mis-judgment of joining in the 'fun.' They don't get that there is actually an art to this like shooting an arrow at a target rather than spraying the room with machine-gun fire and laughing over the writhing and dying bodies as if you'd been clever. Even when they don't really intend to hurt, are not biting their lips in sarcastic, flesh-eating rage, they are tone-deaf and don't get that though irony is meant to appear to hurt, it’s supposed to be between more-or-less equals both of whom have tacitly agreed to take it.

     Irony and sexualness are advanced alchemy. Sexualness is in objective fact so grunting and preposterous that people have developed saccharine-blinding or lust-blinding masks to cover their actual lumpy splotched nakedness. The hormones give a blessed ignorance to the occasion in which the inherent appalling embarrassment is cloaked with fervor until satedness averts the eyes from the previous throbbing desiree. The various hormonal hallucinogens on this planet are rampant and recklessly indulged in.

     Digrif means 'funny,' 'comic' in welsh and he is that indeed. Though if I had to nickname him, I'd go for 'Saharo.' If in Earth terms being sentimental (e.g. Hitler loved his dog.) is called by the Brits, an island people near the Welsh, “wet,” my ironist Digrif is Saharan. The Sahara is a sand sea in the grand continent of Africa. Great waves of golden sand break past the horizon. It is an octessence of dry. Now my tactic in advanced irony includes an occasional token of truthful and overt affection, not very wet, I think, but a break in the routine of merry or furious or lazy or imperious insult. Not our Digrif. No chink in his armor. Saharan of merciless dry. I don't mean to suggest that he speaks aloud every pain he might inflict. He doesn't. (As if it isn't writ all neon for anyone with the slightest second sight.) He pulls a punch now and again. One notices. But sweetness? Never. I expect the Sahara to roll around to become a sea with ships and gulls and penguins before he relents and says something soft. One would occasionally like to curl up in his lap and purr for a catnap without having to be perpetually on guard.

      The planet is harsh in a different and hurtful way. Only irony can transform violence into (even brutal) harmlessness. It is how the planet must evolve so we can still use the violent muscles and lash out, without harm. There is no limit to the weapons irony may use and it can hurt like hell actually, but the point between ironists is the almost-harm. A bullseye is a miss; the arrowpoint should be exactly at the edge of the bullseye and the next ring — showing that one could have really ficking hurt, but just didn't. That's how it's supposed to work. Otherwise it's not playing, it's just being a jackass.

     Of course between experienced, beloved ironists, the bullseye gets smaller and the blow is nearer the center of the dreaded pain or truth.

     Murder is nowhere as deadly really as seriousness is. The pompous, the pious, and the patriots are all terrifying in their claims to the one true way and word.

   In the GreatTimeOcean, luckily clowns rule, clownily luck rules, and there are indeed few rules at all except that if by some horror you relapse into serious or religion or patriotism, people pour itching powder all over you and leave you in the stocks over the weekend while they go eat bbq and dance a lot.

 

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