MOONDOG’S MANUSCRIPT
Excerpt from the Benny Pristine mystery
SATORI TANGO by Charles Webb a.k.a. Hieronymous P. Moondog. The entire book is
posted at: http://satoritango.blogspot.com/
Solve the riddle of Moondog’s
Manuscript and you will understand the Secret Teachings of Cinemorphics.
I see this life as a conjuration and a
dream. Great compassion rises in my heart for those without a knowledge of this
truth. MILAREPA
"I've traveled so much that I feel like
a local almost anywhere in the world. Does that make me a non-local
local?"
I recognized QC's voice immediately, even
though I hadn't crossed paths with him in over ten years, as it echoed down the
bar at Tosca, somehow riding above the wildly animated chatter of the patrons
and the emotional pleas of the voice of some unidentifiable opera singer which
blared from the only jukebox in the world stocked entirely with opera and old
country. Enrico Caruso or Hank Williams...what would it be? QC's kind of place.
QC was one of these characters who roamed
the world incessantly engaged in some obscure business that only he understood
and that I never really wanted to know about for a host of reasons. He had the
knack, or, as he put it, "coincidence control" of turning up at odd
times in unexpected places, but, also as he put it, "right on time in just
the right spot...as usual" with a smug sideways grin and "I told you
so" attitude.
QC was short for Quantum Coyote, his
"real name", his identity of birth having been either lost to him
following a fall of several hundred feet while attempting Mt. Everest alone,
which he miraculously survived intact except for his memory (the story he tells
most often), or deliberately erased by either himself or some covert government
agency, which he occasionally alludes to but which I carefully avoid
discussing.
Tonight, QC looked taller than usual and
his skin tone seemed different, but the ever present rumpled white tropical
suit and Panama hat were the same. I had noticed over the years that "Mr.
Coyote", as he liked to be addressed by the uninitiated, could change his
appearance depending on the part of the world he was in, the language he was
speaking (he seemed to be able to speak them all), the story about himself he
was telling at the time (if he was claiming to be half Irish and half Apache
Indian and expounding on the similarities of Native American and Celtic
Shamanism, he looked the part).
"I am a fictitious character...I make
myself up as I go
along. Everybody else does too, they just
don't know it...what a pity..."
QC did not seem to age. Or, more
accurately, he was able to appear to be younger or older depending on the
character he was "playing" at the time. I once watched him make the
color of his eyes change like a mood ring.
"Controlled Multiple Personality
Disorder...valuable tool in my line of work!"
QC's charisma, bizarre talents, impeccable
social style and seemingly unlimited academic and world wise education and
curiosity made him irresistible and, at the same time, utterly creepy to those
who had known him or thought they had known him for a long time.
QC's voice boomed down the bar once again
as I tried to squeeze through the crowd.
"As Bob Wilson says...reality is what
you can get away with...but as I say...watch out!...reality ain't what it used
to be!"
He glanced away from the people he was
addressing and noticed me inching my way toward him. He beamed a grin of
recognition and spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to part the crowd
Moses style so that I could pass through. He moved toward me, limping a little.
"How did I know you would walk
through that door? I'm waiting for Benny and now here you are."
"You know everything. What brings you
to San Francisco? And what's with the limp? Some new character device? Benny's
coming huh?"
"Well aren't we cynical after all
these years. This is a real limp. Haven't you read the papers? Mario, get
Hieronymous here a drink...Bombay Sapphire with lime...right?”
"Right."
"You should change what you
drink...you're too predictable. Yeah...Benny. I hope he didn't get
intercepted."
"I always drink the same thing, you
always say the same thing when I order it. Why don't you change that?"
"You've asked me that before haven't
you? Where was it..."
"So you were in the newspaper? I
thought that you avoided publicity like death. What do you mean
intercepted?"
A carefully folded copy of Weekly World
News appeared from his inside coat pocket. He unfolded it slowly and handed it
to me. On the cover was a photograph of the sole of a man's foot. The big toe
appeared to be much too large for the rest of the foot. A perfectly round hole
penetrated the big toe and blood oozed from the rim of the hole. The man's face
appeared in the background of the photograph. The face more or less looked like
QC. The headline read, "Man's Big Toe/Portal To Another Dimension! Bizarre
Stigmata Examined By Vatican! Tiny Holy Relics Appear Out Of Nowhere Through
Sacred Toe Hole!"
My drink arrived and we made our way to a
booth at the back of the bar.
"I thought you just investigated
strange phenomena, I didn't realize that you participated. It doesn't seem to
be your style."
"You're right...but this just
happened. Nothing I could do about it. One day in the jungle I woke up after
being out for weeks...I had taken some experimental concoction... way on the
other side of ayahuasca...they thought I was dead except that my eyes were wide
open and the left one kept looking around...but no heartbeat. Then finally I
came back and something like the Bermuda Triangle had taken over my left big
toe and all these tiny crosses and other things started popping from the hole.
There was a priest nearby who had been keeping an eye on the situation. He
thought they had made me into a zombie or something. He flipped out and got in
touch with the nearest newspaper."
"Which jungle QC?"
"Peru. It was in all the papers down
there. I had to hide out to avoid the pilgrims. The Pope sent a ‘special
emissary’ to investigate from the Vatican version of the C.I.A.."
"The what?"
"Oh yeah. They have their own
Impossible Missions Force with their own little James Bond style super monks
that are second to none. Well maybe the Israelis and Swiss are better...I told
Benny to watch out."
"The Swiss?"
"Some other time. Anyhow, I was all the
rage for a couple of days, but nobody could find me. The Indians took care of
that."
"Are you going to tell me how you got
from the jungle to
Tosca?
"Some other time. Uh oh..you see
those two guys who just came in?"
Two extremely well dressed older 1atinos
who looked like either diplomats or Colombian gangsters were standing near the
entrance looking around.
"Who are they?"
"The Pope's people. Let's go out the
back."
"What about Benny?"
"Benny can take care of himself.
He'll catch up with us later."
QC continued cryptically.
"They say the map is not the
territory. Well in my case the territory is not the territory either."
***
We were at my place. QC's bulging left big
toe loomed up at me through the magnifying glass.
"Well there she is...a goddammed rabbit
hole to Wonderland right through my toe...and a holy hole at that!”
The hole was outlandish and disorienting.
It was perfectly round and went all the way through. Rivulets of blood welled
up around its rim in a symmetrical counterclockwise pattern...a miniature
vortex of red fluid.
QC propped his foot up on my large glass
work table so I could get a better look. At a certain angle I could see through
the hole clearly but if I shifted the angle of view slightly all I could see
inside was a pitch black, seemingly endless spooky void.
"Watch this..."
QC moved the toe rapidly back and forth
several times.
A shower of tiny crosses, statues of
saints and Buddhas and other religious looking relics clattered onto the table.
"What do you think of that? "Wow!"
"Zackly."
We both paused reverently and looked at
each other for a long, spine tingling moment. This was one of those only
several times in a lifetime moments when the sacred utterance Wow! And its
reply, Zackly! Were the only appropriate response to a spectacular display of
the truly peculiar and Dada-like infinite strangeness and humor of the
universe.
Perhaps I should back up and explain
myself a bit here. QC and I, along with several hundred others scattered about
the globe, comprise what is left of a lineage of initiates of the ancient order
of W.O.W. or Wizards Of The World which was founded by the crazy wise prophet
Zachariah of Gomorrah a long time ago, hence the magical connotations of the
words Wow! And Zackly! QC's toe definitely deserved a Wow! And a Zackly!
"You can see why I have to avoid the
Vatican agents.
They would kill me if they saw my toe
spitting out Buddhas and crucifixes together...not to mention all this other
strange shit. Now, if you think what you've seen so far is odd...watch
this."
QC slowly inserted the middle finger of
his right hand into the hole in his toe. It did not come out the other side. He
began to rhythmically, almost sexually probe the hole in his toe. He grinned up
at me and then turned his complete attention to what he was doing. The hole
widened as QC plunged his entire hand into it. A swirling, blood rimmed vortex
seemed to open in empty space and suck first QC's entire arm and then his head
and torso into
itself, contorting his body in obscene
ways as it gobbled it up.
I could not move. QC had just disappeared
before my eyes into the gory hole in his left big toe. In all of my studies of
esoterica and bizarre phenomena, even though Fortean in scope, the event I had
just witnessed was unprecedented. And then things got stranger. QC's sideways
grin and then his entire head appeared, floating above my glass table Cheshire
Cat-like, followed by his entire body which oozed back into this dimension with
obvious self satisfaction and confidence.
He just sat there...staring at me...his
left foot still propped on the table as if nothing had happened. Suddenly, I
cracked up...I could not stop laughing.
"What's so fucking funny?"
“I'm sorry...I just got this image of a
cartoon that you used to see on signs in souvenir shops years ago of a guy with
his head up his ass. I wonder if he was looking at the same place you just
disappeared to...that's all."
QC hesitated and then burst into spasms of
hooting and giggling. He jumped up as if possessed and danced about the room
with cryptic, jerky motions until he collapsed in a heap on a pile of large
cushions.
"All I can say is Wow! I mean, it's
way better than drugs, meditation, shamanic journeys or death. Much easier...no
side effects. I mean...just crawl into the hole in your toe and boom! There you
are...the Otherworld!"
"Zackly. But how do you know about
death QC, and how do you know where you go when you go through your toe?”
"Elementary my dear Hieronymous,
elementary. I know where I go when I go through my toe and I know that you know
where I go when I go through my toe."
"This is ridiculous...no?"
"Yes...quite. And therefore
imminently worthy of our most serious attention."
"Let's cut the crap QC."
"Yeah. I don't know whether I am some
whacked out spiritual avatar or a certified sideshow freak."
"Maybe both." "Maybe."
"Maybe we are witnessing the birth of
a new world religion, a religion for the new millennium."
"Maybe." "Maybe you are a
Christ or a Buddha." "Maybe."
"Maybe you are the first Toeist.
T.O.E. after all stands for Theory Of Everything in English. Maybe you are the
new Lao Tzu."
"Wow!...that's more like it! You're a
genius Hieronymous."
"Zackly. Maybe we should write a book
based on your explorations inside your toe since it sounds like the whole
universe is in there."
"It will be known as the
WowToe."
"Where should we begin?"
"Why, at the beginning, of
course."
QC pointed to the hole in his toe and
spoke the magic words with great pomp and seriousness.
"You first."
And thus, Quantum Coyote and his friend,
chronicler, and brother in the ancient order of the Wizards Of The World,
Hieronymous Moondog, disappeared from human space-time to roam the "vast
expanses" of non-time and no place.
***
Before their departure, as a precaution,
they left an
encrypted message on the Internet WOW home
page which only their brothers and sisters in the ancient order, and Benny
Pristine, could read.
Evidence of their Otherworld doings
occasionally crops up in this dimension and is duly noted when even the
uninitiated experience something weird and exclaim wow!
Their return is anxiously anticipated.
Hieronymous Moondog's immense and
whimsical warehouse, workshop, laboratory and archive was sealed by members of
the Order of WOW as soon as they got the news about what was going on. No one
knew exactly where the Rabbit Hole, as it came to be called, was located inside
the labyrinthine cavern, but they were sure it was in there somewhere.
The warehouse was placed under WOW guard,
and only initiates into the Order were allowed inside.
They began to arrive from all over the
world on a pilgrimage of unprecedented expectation, to insure their safety,
guard their secret and greedily await the results of this preposterous quest
for the grail.
An atmosphere of Viking revelry prevailed
as the number of pilgrims grew. They all knew each other but many had not
crossed paths, in the flesh at least, in many years. Tales of old conquests and
new exploits were told deep into the night, fueled by copious amounts of wine
and other substances.
At the stroke of midnight a few weeks into
the gathering the collected throng was brought to attention by a loud
electronic sounding sizzle and pop in the vicinity of Moondog's glass work
table. Unmitigated silence prevailed and all present stared hypnotized in the
direction of the portentous holy noise.
A CD zipped into view, seemingly from
empty space, and spun onto the glass table, rattling and quivering as it
settled into place. The dazed group of onlookers gasped and then someone had
the presence of mind to put the CD into a player in Moondog's sound system and
turn it on. There was only a void of silence at first and then exotic, almost
alien laughter bounced about the warehouse, first here and then there and then
everywhere.
Then they heard QC's sandpapery voice.
"The "T" in TOE does not
stand for Theory, it stands for Theater! TOE means Theater Of Everything!
“Life is a cabaret my friends... Come to
the cabaret...”
The voice and the laughter faded out. The
assembled seekers did not know quite what to do next.
Dazed and confused by this revelation of
something that they already knew or, at least, suspected, they mumbled amongst
themselves for awhile and then all, in lock step synchrony, lay down and took a
nap.
Benny Pristine continued his surveillance.
***
So here we have Quantum Coyote and
Hieronymous Moondog, two world wise, ultra sophisticated and somewhat self
satisfied magi, wandering the mysterious backstage rooms and corridors of the
Theater Of Everything, having gotten there through a hole in the former's left
big toe, while the assembled Wizards Of The World sleep it off in the latter's
warehouse, dreaming of awakening to a revelation.
An incessant and overbearing assortment of
clowns, jugglers, cowboys, Indians, cops, robbers, priests, athletes,
magicians, musicians, stage hands, make-up artists, reporters, freaks, lawyers,
etc., etc., stampede past them, heading in all directions, all about to miss
their cue. From somewhere very far away applause, laughter and occasional
booing and hissing sounds echo toward the two and then are lost in the
hive-like buzz of the ever
late performers. Moondog finally says
something.
"Where the fuck are we?"
"The sign said Theater Of Everything.
The guy who made that CD for us said he was from TOE Records."
"That was weird...he just pulled it
out of his coat pre- recorded."
"What do you expect? You're inside my
toe...anything can happen."
"We must be backstage. Backstage at
the Theater Of Everything...what a concept!"
"This is not a concept. Let's find
the Greenroom."
QC and Moondog wander into the enormous,
jam packed Greenroom of the Theater Of Everything. Countless numbers of
characters of every description dressed in costumes of unprecedented variety
crowd about heavily laden buffet tables that extend out of sight into the far
reaches of the room. A rotund man dressed in black who seems to be in command
of the situation notices the two and approaches them suspiciously. He looks
like Orson Welles.
Orson: Can I help you?
You look lost.
QC: We're just checking out the
accommodations. You know, you really look like Orson Welles.
Orson: I am Orson Welles
you idiot, or at least his personality and ego. If you're here you should know
that by now. You two must have just been written or something. New fictitious
characters can never figure out what's going on at first.
Moondog: What the fuck are
you talking about? QC: I told you I am a fictitious character Hieronymous.
Look, I think I know what you're saying Orson.
Orson: Mr. Welles to you!
You better come clean quick gentlemen or there'll be hell to pay!
Moondog: Uh
oh...considering where we are QC, I think...
QC: You have my profound apologies Mr.
Welles. I am Quantum Coyote, guerrilla ontologist and my associate here is
Hieronymous Moondog, metaphysical entertainer. At your service.
Orson: You two must be
the wise guys who crawled through that crack between the worlds that opened up
in some idiot's big toe the other day.
QC: Excuse me?
Orson: Oh...must've had
to twist yourself up a little to accomplish that feat. What do you want? Most
humans don't make it this far unless they're either dead or doing some sacred
deed.
Moondog: This far?
Orson: Do you have any
idea where you are?
QC: We're lost. Would you be so kind as
to fill us in?
Orson: Look...I've heard
about you two. Spiritual thrill seekers...the whole lot of you! No damned good!
Wizards of the World...indeed! Dilettantes!
QC: Being a wizard is tough these days.
Moondog: If you know so
much about us Mr. Welles, I take it you also know that what we're trying to do
is bring some of the magic back. You know, save the human imagination before it
is either wiped out or winds up stored in some machine.
Orson: How noble. Got a
little self importance going there eh?
QC: Look you asshole stop busting our
balls! We're here right? Showtime! Why don't you give us the inside shit on
this place if you're so fucking high and mighty. Talk about self importance!
Orson: Remember, you are
talking to my ego and my personality. They're not the real me. Sorry.
QC: What a cop out.
Orson: I don't know why
you, of all people, are shocked. You claim to be a fictitious character
yourself...you claim to make yourself up as you go along...you can jump from
character to character at will...even change your physical appearance. You know
that the part is not the player, the character is not the actor, the culturally
conditioned, hypnotized, bound by personal history, named and shaped by mommy
and daddy, legend in its own mind, scared to death that it will die one day, I
want to control everything, let's bet the odds, of course I know who I am,
gravely perception challenged...ego...is not the real you.
Moondog: Wow!
QC: Zackly.
Exasperated, Orson walks away into the
crowd. QC and Moondog hurry to catch up with him.
Orson: Follow me!
QC and Moondog are admiring the
hundreds of photographs on the walls of Orson's lavish office. Orson is gazing
out a picture window at the hubbub in the Greenroom below. He mumbles to
himself.
Orson: Incarnation is
addictive...only a master could have made such a blunder...
QC: What?
Orson: I think it was
Vincent Van Gogh who said that.
QC: Said what?
Orson: Nothing. I guess
I'm just jealous. Remember, you're still talking to my ego.
Moondog: Jealous of who?
Orson: You claim to be a
wizard...who do you think?
QC: Oh...(to Moondog)...are you sure
we're in the right place? I mean...here we are, backstage at what we think is
the Theater Of Everything with some dead ego maniac director, a coliseum sized
room full of crazed fictitious characters ...and our dear director, who is also
our tour guide, telling us about how he is jealous of God!
Orson: All artists are
jealous of incomprehensible talent. And we are all artists, are we not, of one
kind or another. We all create our own world - I think...the problem arises
when we don't realize who has created it...that it is that whoever which is
responsible for either continuing work on our present creation or beginning
another. So why not be jealous of God? God is the doer. I think God would
approve. Sit down... I'll tell you what I know.
Orson slips into his best narrative
persona and his voice resonates through the room.
Orson: Welcome to the
Theater Of Everything...everything is theater, everything is performance,
everything is carefully written, everything is utterly spontaneous, everything
dances, everything sings, everything has an audience, everything moves,
everything has power, everything lives, everything is creativity, everything
loves...everything giggles ...anything is possible.
Orson pauses. QC and Moondog are spellbound.
Orson: Now...you two bad
boys have snuck backstage to take a peek at the naked stripper... right? This
is all abstract, but I'm sure, in typical human form, you will make it make
sense. You will either think you are getting what you think you are paying
for...or, if you just begin to make sense of this backstage nonsense, you may
go home mad...as in loony, nuts, off one's rocker. If you do good here, I may
certify you both as bona fide fools.
Silence.
Orson studies QC and Moondog carefully as
he paces back and forth in front of them. Suddenly, he spins around to face
them and shouts.
Orson: Bang! QC and
Moondog jump and Orson dies laughing. He composes himself and continues.
Orson: "God has no
religion" Mahatma Gandhi..."I would only believe in a God who could
dance" Friedrich Nietzche..."God is putting up the money for this
production, of course. Playing all the parts too, although even God can be
forgetful. He (or She he, he, he) has creative control" Orson Welles...but
then, but then, "A movie does not exist without an audience" Jean Luc
Godard.
Orson turns on the two again and screams.
Orson: Wake up!
QC and Moondog jump again.
Orson: The audience
shouldn't sleep through the performance. That's the problem with most human
beings...they don't realize that they are both the performer and the audience.
They get so caught up in their part that they forget they are just
acting...just playing a fictitious character that has partly been created for
them by...guess who? And, let me tell you, once that fictitious character has
been created, it insists on being played...will do anything to be acted
out...why just look at me! Before you stands the ego and personality of the
fictitious character known as Orson Welles, whose body died some time ago and
whose soul is casting about for another character to play, a character who can
learn from poor Orson's mistakes and move on to greater heights of expression.
Of course, my soul and I still hang out, along with several other characters my
soul has played down through the ages. Let's say we are our soul's
consultants...we are helping our soul pick a set of circumstances for the new
incarnation that will produce a great new character...hopefully a character who
won't forget who is watching the show. How ironic...that was my problem on
earth. Here I was, a great actor and
a great director, and I forgot that I was
a great actor and a great director. How silly of me huh? But one must never
despair of waking up...tell them this when you go back. Tell them they're the
audience, remind them that they've paid for their seats by showing up at the
rock concert, Broadway musical comedy, disaster movie, three ring circus of
their life time and that they had better pay attention! I mean really...why
show up at the ball game if you ain't gonna root for the home team?
There is a long silence. Finally QC
speaks.
QC: So what you're saying is that a
soul, with direction, picks a set of cultural and genetic circumstances that
become the seed of a character and a body that is shaped by that culture,
parents, education and the character itself that congeals into an ego and
personality that the soul can use to creatively express itself through as long
as it maintains awareness of what is going on and that it is not contained or
defined by this ego and personality, but, instead, contains and defines it.
Orson: Uhh...
QC: Right?
Orson: Uhhh...no...
Moondog: Jesus Christ! Are
you satisfied Orson. Now you have poor QC here spouting some fa ca ca quasi
metaphysics that sounds more moronic than that melodramatic crap you're trying
to sell. I mean, don't get me
wrong, your performance was great, very
convincing and you did make some points but look at this guy. (QC is lost in
space) Snap out of it QC!
A female voice screeches from the intercom
on Orson's desk.
Voice: Mr. Welles Mr.
Welles the situation in the Greenroom is reaching critical mass! All the
characters are demanding to know when they will be assigned an actor and
Hamlet, James Bond and Dracula are in your waiting room!
Orson turns away from QC and Moondog and
stares blankly at the near riot in the Greenroom far below. The fictitious
characters have started a food fight and are chanting.
Chant: Orson! Orson! Cast
us! Cast us! Orson mutters to himself.
Orson: Rosebud...Rosebud...Rosebud...Rosebud...
Moondog jerks QC to his feet.
Moondog: Its been great
Orson, but we're outa here. QC and Moondog exit.
***
The massive iron gates of the Theater Of
Everything clang shut behind QC and Moondog. QC, back to his senses now, looks
up at the sign above the gate and shakes his head.
"If that's it, we're in big
trouble..."
Moondog squirms uncomfortably.
"I wonder if there's a Toilet Of
Everything around here?"
They look around. They are at one end of a
colossal tunnel
which branches this way and that in the
distance. A neon sign buzzes on and off overhead...Tunnel Of Everything. QC
sighs.
"Oh boy...here we go. I guess the
Theater Of Everything
did not include the Tunnel Of
Everything."
"Or the Toilet Of Everything
either...look over there."
Just around a slight bend in the tunnel
they see a frosted
glass door with the sign Toilet Of
Everything above it. Moondog quickly heads for the door.
The walls of the Toilet Of Everything are
covered with graffiti.
Do not take the Buddha for the
Ultimate. As I look at him, he is still like the hole in the privy. RINZAI
Language is a virus from outer space.
WILLIAM BURROUGHS
Knowledge is fashion.
ROBERT HARDING
Everything you know is wrong.
FIRESIGN THEATER
A man's worst enemies can't wish on him
what he can think up himself. YIDDISH PROVERB
Behead yourself!
RUMI
If I could tell you what it meant,
there'd be no use in dancing it. ISADORA DUNCAN
Show hard.
ANONYMOUS
Thousands of remarks cover every available
space on the walls of the Toilet Of Everything. QC and Moondog relieve
themselves and, after seemingly endless perusal, QC has to finally physically
pull Moondog away from this vast literary display.
Back in the tunnel, Moondog is obviously
impressed.
"They sure tagged that sucker!"
***
Moondog's manuscript ends here. I don't
know whether this is a total fabrication or based on actual experience...with
these guys its hard to tell. I must ask Moondog and QC when I see them again.
In any case, I guess they made it out of Quantum Coyote's big toe and lived to
tell the tale. Unless, of course, we are now all actually inside of
Quantum Coyote's big
toe...Matrix-like...after all, T.O.E.
could stand for Toe Of Everything...which would mean that...I'll stop this line
of inquiry here. For now...
***
