Thus spoke she to me in a dream. T'was not a dream which so often pervades the throes of sleep, confirmable by the lack of respite which is so often provided by the act of sleep.
Indeed in a forlorn state I pondered and wandered the mental foyer, shouting to the corners and hearing nought but echoes.
"What is this, then?" I shouted into the corners finally, and received, finally, the elegiac musings of a non-being being:
"You are like the sinew in the back of the cuniculus. Be the ears, so that your warren may hear. I will be the light, so that you may lead your warren."
The words moved me, and I thusly said, "I'm not some fuckin' rabbit!" The elegiac rabbit woman voice simply said after a brief pause, "You are now."
I waited. Oh GOD how I waited. I waited for the pain that one expects to accompany a human body being ripped and pulled and contorted and compressed to resemble that of a rabbit.
But I reached above my head, and did I feel ears? No. I felt my big, voluptuous bald head that I was so used to having rest above my front face.
No, I had not magically been painlessly corrupted into the form of a rabbit. I was still me! Hark! I'm still me! La di da oh WOW!
In my excitement I shouted again to the corners of my consciousness's foyer, "Hark, lady of the foyer! Who are you?" A trail of echoes followed the sonar inquiry, and I received no reply.
"Bad signal," I joked. Suddenly my vision was given back to me. I'd not even noticed that during this tiresome divination, I was not seeing things as they really were - as I said, a dream - but rather as they were made to appear.
And when my sight did return, I found myself in the fetal position, curled up in a hole (big enough only for my calfs squeezed together, making me look like the ice cream in an ice cream cone) in a sun-licked field of green and lilac.
The oaken damp musk of mother earth tucked betwixt my toes reminded me of fresh potatoes. "I'm no rabbit," says I, "I'm a fuckin' potater!" I liked that word, no doubt. But it wasn't the right word. Not that I care. I didn't recognize the area, but my phone lied on the ground beside me.
I'd missed 130 calls and who-knows-how-many texts. I climbed up out of the hole and was going to check my location on my phone when out the crack of my ass fell a shimmering pellet of gold. "I've got rabbit shits," I thought. But lo, it had been tucked betwixt the cheeks - the ass-humps, if you will - and fallen out when the pressure of my cheeks being so close together relieved it of its position.
I did not realize I was naked until that moment. I picked up the pellet, and it was a teardrop-shaped object. Like a seed. Fuckin a', it's a money tree seed isn't it? Isn't it? No. I planted it, because my enticed mind needed to believe it was a money tree. I checked my location on a map and walked to my house, which was only about 100 yards behind me. At home, I take a shower to wash mother earth out of my toes.
The drain curdles and gurgles its thanks to me for being so gracious as to provide satiety. The night passes with little worth recalling except that I dropped a knife on the floor and missed my second toe (which you should know protrudes further than my big toe by 1.7cm!) by exactly 1.7cm!
What a crazy world. I mean I measured it too. I really did. I got my calipers out of the drawer and measured it. 1.70 cm flat! So the next day rolls around. I go to where I'd planted the money tree seed. A sprout has sprung from the ground. The sprout was one stem, from which emerged two twigs, from which emerged three twigs apiece.
The six twigs in the upper tier of the plant were a blazing gold. All the grass surrounding the hole had withered to dust. The stem of the plant was a maroon-brown with flecks of gold in its vermiculated skin. A very faint glow seemed to emanate from the plant, but it may also have simply been the sunlight reflecting on the plant.
Then another dream - this time only auditory. It was rabbit woman who spoke to me again: "She needs water." And in my boundless omniscience I quipped, "But it's not supposed to rain for a few days." Peculiar - my ears heard my statement, but my mouth said nothing. It was as though my brain spoke into a microphone connected to a speaker in the field.
The rabbit woman, abject, sighed as a white plume traversed the sky and darkened the morning. "Listen, Ears. Listen, for your warren." And I heard pit-pit-pat-tats of liquid beads pecking the ground. It was rain. It was cloud. It was water. Was I dreaming? No, it's 9:45 AM. I never dream past 7:45 AM. Not without some spirits. This was real.
The sprout in the ground danced a wobble as it grew taller. The girth of its stem became the girth of its trunk. The 3 twigs grew 5 twigs apiece grew 8 twigs apiece and so on. This trunk was that of a tree. The gold, radiant aura of the leaves destroyed the gloom of the cloud. The magnificent skin with its puce and brass complexion entranced me.
Magnificent orange polypores marched up the trunk to greet one especially radiant limb at the end of which blossomed one especially radiant flower which kneaded and opened and twisted until it birthed one especially radiant golden apple. The apple pounded the dirt below with a guttural thump that shook inside my chest. Fuckin' weird.
I picked the apple up and it was much heavier and much golder than I generally expect apples to be. And the apple had a weird indentation on the back. Greek lettering. Fuckin' weird there too. Never seen it before. And what did the Greek lettering say? Trusty Google says it's "Kallisti" (you have to imagine that those are greek letters). "To the fairest," apparently.
I thought that was mighty charming, really, because I'm not exactly known for my fairness and beauty, but this magic, tree-making rabbit woman voice rain woman thought I looked good. I'll get it where I can get it, you know? Now, I'm something of a real dipshit sometimes, and when I lost a 16th of my front left tooth to biting into a solid apple of gold, it was one such time.
Eventually the tree stopped growing. The clouds waned into azure sky. With my tooth now hurting, I walked home, apple in hand. "Wait, rabbit" called the rabbit woman sky voice woman. "This is your life. This is all life. This is Discord. All being and non-being things are subject to my influence. Do you know who I am?" I answered accurately: "No." The rabbit voice sky tree discord influence woman responded, "Google it."
My pallid fingers procured my mobile device to investigate these things. I searched Kallisti and learned of a fantastical thing called the Principia Discordia. The Principia was a book of mercurial authorship. No one knows how serious its transcribers were when they recorded the words of Eris, the deity-of-interest for "Discordians." I learned of the natural ebb and flow of the universe and its tendency to osmose into disarray. All things move from placid to chaotic given enough time. I read Principia cover to cover. As many editions as I could find. I own 203 copies myself. Lo, I was enlightened.
Today I read again. I read it all. The reading voice in my head has seen this text so often that the voice is disembodied and not my own. The voice was distant at first. I was reading without hearing it for the longest. Eventually it got to a shout. A yell in my head. It shouted very very loudly like a flat tire semi truck traversing an old strip of blacktop at high speed. Wwwoooooooolllllllddddd. Doppler effect. Every word a crest of sound. I was having fun with this but now I have a migraine and it bumps in my skull. I can feel something like dental scrapers like nails on chalkboards rubbing against my parietal skull. "Some say he's a shithead" the book quakes at me. Names like Hung Mung and POLYFATHER contrast images of apples and concentrically opposed arrows. Pentagons and arrows and stars and eyes flanked by the sides of triangles. Sacred algebra and twenty-three. 2-3. 2+3=5.
Did you know that if you draw a decagon and connect each vertex to each other vertex, the sequence will consist of drawing 7 lines, then another 7, then 6, then 5, then 4, 3, 2, and 1. (7+7+6+5+4)-(3+2+1)=23, and a decagon consists of ten sides: 10 = (2*5). 5 is a holy number. And as we know, (5-2)=3. 5, 2, 3. It's always been this way. Did you know that Apollo 11 landed at 23 deg E on the moon? And Apollo 12 landed at -23 deg E on the moon? We have ((11+12)+23+23)=69. These landings occurred in 1969. Russia made a soft landing on the moon on February 3, 1966. 2/3 for Americans. 1966. That's two sixes. 6/2=3. 23. That lunar module was called Luna 9. 9, of course, is equal to 3^2. The letter W is the 23rd letter of the alphabet and is visually represented by 3 crests and 2 troughs. Eris knew. Malaclypse knew. Omar knew. In a bowling alley this happened to them. There are 10 pins in a bowling lane. We already know the relationships between 10, 5, and 23. 2 opposing forces. Erisian and Anerisian. Existence and nonexistence.
There is no distinction between the two without the two existing separately. You probably think I give two fucks if this sounds insane. Insane is in the vocabulary of fools. Schools of dullards learn the ways of dullards. The decagon. It's doubly holy as the pentagon. It is twice as many sides as the pentagon. And far more interconnected. Stick that on your graph and analyze it, poindexter. A 73-day season. It's inspired. 5 sets of 73 days. And hot dogs out the wazoo. I've learned a lot. I licked a halogen bulb. Couldn't taste for a fuckin month. Impregnate the cosmos, Apollo. Arnold Toynbee was onto something. "Resurrect Dead on Planet Jupiter." There's something to that. We're one arrow, and Jupiter is the other. I will be like the cat in the box for a time. I'll know, but you won't. You'll get tired of it quick. Schrodinger and Pandora used the same moving service if you ask me. In my mind is the wall with leaflets and pages with tacks and a web of red yarn. Palacial minarets and spires and arches and marbled walls of a sterile file office of thoughts. Mind palace? Who dropped these files here? I keep writing things here and then people in other places and rooms will mention or tangentially quote the very topic at hand. Why is that? We live on a lattice. We all walk the same porch and view the same vista with different pairs of glasses. And with that I leave you with this for the time being: are your woes your own? I can guess them. I have them too. Primordial life. Birth is a diving board into the pool of conscious energy. Dive, rabbit, dive.